Big Belt stood before a man of his own size--Lornievitch, the Commander
of commanders, Himself.
It was night. Boylan had plunged into a new vat of power, and persuaded
Dabnitz to furnish an escort from Judenbach, four miles to the east to
the main headquarters of the Galician army.
Rows of sleepy stenographers in the outer room of a broad shepherd's
house in a little hill village--a web of wires on the low ceiling,
lanterns, candles, field 'phones and telegraph tickers, none altogether
subsided; as much routine as in the management of a state--the center of
this monster battle-line--to say nothing of the spectacular.
The two men now filled a small inner room. Lornievitch spoke English--an
English much to the caller's liking. Perhaps it was the bond of bulk
between them.
“Well, and so you are Boylan of the _Rhodes?_--what is it, Mr. Boylan?
We are very busy.”
“I have a young friend of _The States”_ he began and talked for three
minutes--talked until Lornievitch squirmed and his aides hurried forward
ready to assist.
“And what does Kohlvihr say?”
“I had to speak to him through an interpreter. I could not get the
answer I wanted. He has had a terrible day. The life of one American is
too small for discussion there--”
“And you have come here to me. Meanwhile, on the wire is the young man's
case--a love affair with a revolutionist--and a sort of be-damned to the
Russian army. You are a strong man, doubtless a brave one--”
Boylan was fighting for Peter's life as he would not have fought for
his own; and yet he warmed to the commander--fibers all through him
warming--something of man-business about this office that made the
headquarters at Judenbach look sinister and den-like. It was just his
hope in all likelihood.
“But Mr. Boylan,” Lornievitch added, “what would you do in my case?
There's big action, front, side, within. They have a case against the
others--and he is one of them.”
“He may be one in a momentary infatuation--”
“Nonsense, Boylan--this is no time for girls!”
“I grant you that, sir. But he is not a revolutionist. I've slept and
ridden with him night and day. His paper wouldn't pay for cigarettes
to do other than tell the story from the army end. If he's gone _loco,_
I'll take him home under my arm--”
“I say, Boylan, what do you want of him this way? He's a newspaper
competitor--”
“Mowbray got to me. Didn't try to, but he's there. Took the field as
if it had been his work always. He's a friend, clever, courageous, a
gentleman always, clean cut, a laugh, a hand--and a boy over it all.
I didn't know--until I found him in danger. I couldn't feel worse if I
were his old woman--I am twice his age, damn near--”
“You're invincible, Boylan. I'll tell you this: I feel better. That's
worth something. Things look black here in the valleys. Something human
I needed, in your coming. Go back now. Nothing will be done until
the morning. We've had to shoot Austrian spies all day. Caught 'em
red-handed. I feel red-handed, too. Go back, and before to-morrow
morning I'll get an order over to straighten him out from the
others--before final action is taken. Maybe I'll look him over myself.
Good night.... Oh, I say, Mr. Boylan--”
“Yes, General.”
“Oh, it doesn't matter. I was just thinking I'd like to have one friend
like young what's-his-name of _The States_ has--”
“Mowbray--Mowbray--don't forget the name, General--”
“Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Boylan put his soul in it. He loved the Russians. It was far this side
of midnight, but he smelled the dawn.
Back in his own quarters, as he yawned largely at the flickering shadows
of the freshly-lit candle, he noted Peter's saddle bags on the floor,
and considered that it might be well to get them over to-night.