in the intervals of her ministrations, read a book of Hours. The slow
clock ticked on the mantelshelf; three struck, and four.
At a little after four there was a loud knock on the door.
"At last!" said Burton, half in relief, half in misgiving. The old men
started up, and grasped each a revolver. The lady put down her book and
clasped her hands on her lap, pressing her lips together as if to shut
in a cry.
"Who is there?" demanded Burton in French.
"Where is Major Schwikkard?" came the answer. An officer was speaking.
Burton saw that further concealment was useless.
"He is here," he called down the passage, "a prisoner."
The German swore.
"You dogs! You imbeciles!" he shouted, shaking the door. "Let me in.
What do you mean by this buffoonery? If it is your trick, you
white-headed old fool, you shan't escape hanging because you were once a
soldier. You and your man are civilians in arms. You shall die by
inches. Let me in, I say."
There was no reply. The officer shook the door again.
"Force it with your shoulder, Vossling," he said with an oath.
The door creaked, but the lock held. Next moment there was a crash; he
had blown in the lock with a shot from his revolver. But the door
banged against the wardrobe placed behind it. The German swore again.
Then there was silence. In a few minutes, several voices were heard.
"Remove this barricade, you old French fools," said the captain, in a
voice thick with sleep, wine and rage, "or we will blow the place to
atoms."
"And Major Schwikkard?" said Burton, quietly.
"That is not an old man speaking," said the captain to his companions.
"There was no one else in the house except the old hag and the wounded
man."
"And the deaf mute," said one of the others.
"Potztausend! If that dirty fellow has played tricks on us I will crop
his ears and cut his tongue out. Give them a taste."
Their revolvers spoke; three shots crashed through the wood, flew along
the passage, through the open door opposite, and finally embedded
themselves in the shutter. A moment later Burton, stepping to the edge
of the doorway, lifted his rifle and fired. There was a cry from beyond
the barricaded door, a volley of oaths, and a general stampede for
safety to the landing.
For a few minutes there was silence. The marquise stroked her son's hot
brow. Then a fusillade burst through the door and the stout barricade
behind it. The bullets pattered on the shutters, but the three men had
stood back out of the line of fire. None of them was struck by a shot,
but a splinter of wood from the wardrobe glanced off the inner door ami
grazed Pierre's cheek. Again and again the fusillade was repeated. The
defenders, husbanding their ammunition, and careful not to expose
themselves, did not reply; they waited in grim silence, to meet the
enemy's next move.
The failure of their efforts enraged and nonplussed the Germans. Warned
by the shot that had wounded one of them, they made no attempt to storm
the barricade. There was a short interval, and they were heard
discussing the situation in low tones. The result was made clear in a
few minutes. Bullets began to crash through the shutters to all the
windows.
"They have brought up men from the village, and surrounded the wing,"
said the general.
"We shall be in no danger," said Burton. "Firing from the ground, their
shots will go through the ceilings."
In a short time this became apparent to the assailants. The attack
ceased for a little; then, through the window of the room in which the
major lay, bullets flew horizontally across the room, a few inches above
his head.
"They will kill their own officer!" cried Burton. "We can't leave him
helpless in his present position."
"He deserves no pity," said the general. "Still, we are not Germans. My
camp bed is there, lower than the bed he is on, and easily moved. Let
us place him on that."
"Mon Dieu! It is the bed you slept on in '70, monsieur," cried Pierre.
"What then, my friend?"
"It is sacrilege, monsieur; it is treason to France--pardon, mon maitre,
I should not have said that, but it would tear my heart to see a German
on that bed."
"Let that be our _revanche_," said the general, quietly.
"I hope a German bullet may find him," muttered the old man, as the
others released the stiff figure upon the bed. They kept on their knees
to avoid the flying bullets, and so transferred the German from the
larger bedstead to the low single bed on which the general had made the
campaign of '70. They placed it against the wall in the corner near the
window, out of danger. Leaving Pierre on his knees to fire up if any
German tried to enter the room through the window, they returned to the
invalid's bedroom.
"Strange that they should be so reckless of killing their own officer,"
remarked Burton.
"They are callous ruffians," the general replied. "Besides, it is war;
one life is of little account. That is what we all have to remember.
The individual life is nothing; the cause is all."
The passage and the rooms were filling with suffocating fumes. The
noise of shots, of splintering wood, of shouting men, was incessant.
Hitherto, save for the single rifle shot fired by Burton, the defenders
had not used their weapons. At the end of the passage they could not
have escaped the hail of bullets; from the side doors they could not
take direct aim. But the attack had now become so violent that
reprisals must be attempted, or the defences would be utterly shattered.
An idea came suddenly to Burton. Closing the door leading to the sick
man's room, so that the passage was completely dark, he passed into the
next room, shoved a table through the doorway, set a chair upon it, and
waiting until there was a slight lull in the attack, climbed upon the
chair.
Standing thus above the enemy's line of fire, and in darkness, he was
able to see, through the gaps made in the barricade and the door, a
faint light filtering through from the lamp in the hall below. A crowd
of Germans had come quite close to the door, and were thrusting their
rifles through the jagged rents in the panels. Burton took careful aim
at one of them, fired, and a yell proclaimed that his bullet had gone
home. A second shot claimed its victim. Then the enemy, cursing with
rage, rushed back from the door, and for a time continued firing from
the angles of the landing.
Meanwhile the window at which Pierre was left had been driven in,
shutter and all, by repeated blows of an axe wielded by a man mounted on
a ladder. The old man fired just as the German was stepping from the
ladder to the window-sill. Shot through the heart, the intruder fell
headlong. None of his comrades was bold enough to emulate his daring.
The general had been chafing at his inability to take a positive part in
the fight. Stimulated by the success Burton had had from his post of
vantage, the old warrior's Gallic spirit threw aside caution. Slipping
into the passage, he was in the act of placing another chair on the
table when a bullet fired from the angle on the landing struck a brass
bracket on the wall at his left, rebounded from it, and buried itself
with a splinter of brass in the old man's arm. He reeled. Burton sprang
down to assist him, and carried him fainting into the bedroom, where his
wife received him into her arms.
[Illustration: The marquis is hit]
"Hard luck!" thought Burton, for the shot that wounded the general was
the last to be fired for a considerable time.
VI
The enemy ceased firing, both within the chateau and without. Wondering
what their next move would be, Burton remained heedfully on guard, rifle
in hand. Pierre, overcome with grief at the collapse of his master, was
assisting the marquise to restore him and to bind up his wound.
Presently the German's voice came through the door.
"General du Breuil!"
"What do you want?" Burton called.
"You treacherous hound! I have nothing to say to you," cried the
German, angrily. "I speak to the general."
"The general deputes me to answer for him. If you will not speak to me,
you will go unanswered."
"Who are you?" the German asked with an oath.
"The general's deputy," replied Burton.
"That will not avail you," cried the officer, sneeringly. "I have sent
to the village to fetch that rascally smith who assisted your imposture.
When he has told me who you are, he shall be deaf and dumb for his last
minute in life."
Burton felt chill from top to toe. He had not thought of the peril in
which his stratagem might involve the smith. The Germans were capable
of any enormity. But he could do nothing--except gain time. Would the
British advance guard arrive before all was lost?
"Well, if the general chooses to employ a cur as his deputy, so be it,"
the German went on. "Like man, like master. Take this message to the
general: If he does not yield, I will fire the chateau."
"And if we surrender?" said Burton.
"We will deal with him as a soldier. He will be tried by court-martial."
"On what charge?"
"That, having been a soldier, with no excuse of ignorance of the laws of
war, he, as a civilian, resists the military power."
"And if he is found guilty?"
"His fate will lie in the discretion of the court."
"And his old servant?"
The German, anxious to gain his ends without further fighting,
hesitated, then replied, equivocally--
"The court will decide."
"And myself?"
"The court will decide," replied the officer, impatiently.
"Is that all?"
The German smote the door angrily.
"Your answer!" he cried.
"You will give us a few minutes for consultation?"
"Five minutes: no more."
Burton stood on his chair, holding his rifle.
"I heard it, monsieur," said the voice of the marquise in an undertone
behind him. "My poor husband is incapable of speech. We must leave all
to you. But can we resist fire?"
"Madame, I seek to gain time. We can expect no mercy from the Germans.
There is but one hope--that our army will arrive in time. If that hope
fails----"
"Spare us fire, monsieur, I implore you. It is frightful."
She wrung her hands piteously.
"Trust me, madame; hope, and pray," said Burton.
When the five minutes were up, the German hailed him. "Your
answer--quickly."
"Monsieur le capitaine," said Burton, suavely, "we cannot surrender yet.
We should like to kill a few more Germans."
The officer let out a vicious oath.
"Then roast!" he cried. "You and the rest."
"Including your worthy commandant, mon capitaine? Don't forget him."
"You have murdered him."
"That is the explanation of their reckless shooting," thought Burton.
He replied: "Not at all. We are not Germans."
"You lie!" cried the captain, whose anger was rapidly getting the better
of him.
"Did I not remind you, monsieur, that we are not Germans?"
The officer was speechless with rage. Burton imagined his quandary. It
would be awkward for him if he set fire to the chateau and burnt his
superior. His next words showed his state of mind.
"You say Major Schwikkard is alive. Prove it."
"Nothing easier, mon capitaine," said Burton. "You must give me a few
minutes. He is a heavy man."
He saw that there was nothing to lose, possibly something to gain, by
convincing the German. Slipping down from his perch, he hurried to
Pierre, who was kneeling at his master's chair.
"Come with me," he said, and led him into the room where the major lay
gagged and bound. The bed was a light one. They carried it to the
window, and tilted it on end. Leaving Pierre to maintain it in that
position, Burton returned to the chair, and kept silence until the
captain impatiently demanded his proofs.
"I must trouble you to descend and go to the rear of the wing,
monsieur," said Burton. "It is dark: no doubt you have a flashlight?"
"We have; what then? Do not play with me."
"Far from it, monsieur. I am aware of the gravity of your position. Go
down to the garden at the rear, and look up at the window that will then
face you. But do not flash your light up until I give the word."
The German snarled under his breath. Burton caught the sounds of a
whispered consultation at the stair-head. A minute or two later the
officer called up from the garden. Burton withdrew the piled-up
furniture, opened the shutters, and helped Pierre to lift the bed,
tilted as it was, to the window. The major's form, stretched upon it,
somewhat resembled a mummy in a case.
"Now, monsieur!" Burton called.
The glaring light of an acetylene lamp was thrown up towards the window.
It fell on the major's face, which, ghastly in itself, looked death-like
in the glare.
"He is dead!" the captain shouted.
"Not at all--only afraid; he overheard your amiable intentions. We will
demonstrate." He turned to Pierre, saying: "Fetch some pepper."
"There is none upstairs, monsieur. I dare not go below."
"Some snuff?"
"Ah, oui! monsieur le marquis likes his pinch. A moment, monsieur."
He went into the bedroom, took a snuff-box from his master's pocket, and
returned. Burton opened the box, took a large pinch of snuff, and held
it to the major's nose. There was a slight but dramatic pause. All was
silent. Then the major's features became convulsed, and the silence was
rent by a resounding sneeze.
"Now, monsieur le capitaine," cried Burton, "could a dead German sneeze
like that?"
There were snarls of rage from below, mingled, Burton thought, with
suppressed laughter from some of the troopers who had gathered in the
background behind their officers.
"With your good pleasure we will resume our interesting conversation
above," said Burton.
With Pierre he lowered the bed and carried it back to its former
position. Then he replaced the shutters.
"Another ten minutes gained," he thought.
The ten minutes were prolonged to fifteen. The captain was consulting
with his subordinates. Presently he called through the door--
"Are you there?"
"Always at your service, monsieur."
"Seeing that Major Schwikkard is apparently alive, we will permit you to
surrender on terms."
"What terms, monsieur?"
"You shall be allowed to pass through the German lines."
"I should like to consult the general, monsieur," said Burton, still
talking to gain time.
"Five minutes."
"Let us say ten, monsieur," Burton pleaded. "It is, you will admit, a
serious matter."
"Ten, then; not a minute more."
At the end of the ten minutes the captain called for an answer.
"The general wishes to know, monsieur, what guarantee he has for
safety."
"The word of a German officer," snarled the captain. "Be quick!"
Waiting a minute or so, Burton said--
"The general has a little difficulty in making up his mind--pardonable
at his age. You give him another ten minutes, monsieur?"
"Three; not a second more," cried the German, completely hoodwinked by
Burton's tone, and unaware of the vital consideration in Burton's
mind--the return of Captain Rolfe to head-quarters.
"Very well, monsieur. I will bring the general's answer in three
minutes."
The marquise and Pierre were holding their breath. The same thought
possessed them both; to what lengths would this audacious Englishman go?
The period elapsed; the captain called peremptorily for an answer.
"The general, monsieur, has considered your offer," said Burton, "and he
feels safer where he is."
At last the German's besotted intelligence was penetrated by the
suspicion that he had been played with. He poured out his venom in a
torrent of virulent abuse, snatched at his revolver, and fired
point-blank into the darkness. The bullet struck one of the legs of
Burton's chair, the chair broke under him, and he fell with a crash.
The effect of the shot, heard but not seen by the Germans, was hailed by
them with a shout of triumph. But Burton crawled into the bedroom, with
no worse injury than bruised elbows and shins.
VII
Into the next few minutes were crowded, as it seemed to Burton in
reminiscence, the events of hours. Emboldened by the supposed success
of the captain's shot, the Germans renewed the attack with great
violence and determination, both within and without. Repeated
onslaughts were made on the tottering door, which was now almost
completely splintered, and on the barricade of furniture behind it.
Burton had lost no time in replacing the broken chair, and twice his
steady fire from near the ceiling sent the attackers back in a
disorderly heap.
Meanwhile two of the windows and their shutters had been riddled by
long-distance fire, and men were again mounting on ladders to break into
the rooms. At one, Pierre played a manful part; at the other, the
general, bracing himself as the peril grew greater, stood holding his
revolver in his left hand, and shot man after man.
The grey light of early morning was now stealing into the room,
depriving the defenders of the advantage of darkness. The shouts of the
men, the reports of the guns, the suffocating fumes, made the place an
inferno. At the bedside the marquise still bravely held her post.
Burton was too busy to notice the extreme pallor of her face, the
trembling of her hands, the agonised look of terror in her eyes.
With a wild shout the infuriated Germans crashed through the broken
door, and began to pull away the barricade at the end of the passage.
While they were doing so, it was impossible for their comrades to
continue firing; the attack was interrupted, and Burton shot down many
of the enemy among the pile of shattered furniture. But he recognised
that, the Germans having won an entrance to the passage, it was only a
question of minutes before the defence was overwhelmed.
At this moment he heard a groan in his rear. Pierre, badly hit, had
staggered from the window he had been defending through the
communicating doorway into the invalid's room. "It is all over with
me!" he moaned, sinking at his mistress's feet. The crack of the
general's revolver still sounded at short intervals from the next room.
Here and there the woodwork was smouldering; before long it would burst
into flames.
"There is only one thing to be done," thought Burton, resolved to
maintain the struggle to the end, desperate as the position was. "We
must keep together, and make a last stand at the captain's bed."
Filling his magazine, he poured shot after shot into the enemy crowding
in the doorway and bursting through the barrier. The survivors reeled
back under this withering fire, giving Burton time to leap from his
perch, run into the room, and call the general to his side. Pierre was
helpless, the invalid was half dead, only the general and Burton
remained to stem a tide which would soon flow back with tenfold force
along the passage.
The two men posted themselves before the bed, ready to meet the final
rush. Unknown to them, the marquise had taken the revolver from Pierre's
hand and stood in front of her son, like a lioness defending her cub.
The attack was renewed simultaneously on all sides, but a strange
inadvertence on the part of the enemy intervened to deal a partial
check. They were shooting from the demolished barricade at the end of
the passage. At the same time their comrades outside had begun to fire
through the window in a direct line with it. Several of the Germans in
the passage fell to the bullets of their own friends.
Growling at this mishap, the unwounded men broke through the doors at
the sides into the rooms. Burton had closed and barricaded, as well as
he could, the communicating doors, but he felt with a sinking heart that
a few seconds would bring the unequal contest to its inevitable end.
The din was terrific, and with it was now mingled a surprising sound
from outside the house.
"A machine-gun!" said Burton to himself. "They will shatter their own
men!" He had no more time to think about it. The door of the room to
his left fell in with a crash; in the glimmer of dawn the opening was
crowded with Germans. Burton and the general emptied their revolvers
into the mass; it collapsed, and the two men hastily filled their
chambers to meet the next, the final rush.
[Illustration: THE DOOR FELL IN WITH A CRASH]
But there was a strange lull in the rifle fire. From outside again came
the rattle of a machine-gun, and, in a momentary interval of silence,
Burton caught the sound of cheers. Surely they were not German cheers?
He thrilled with the conviction that the voices this time had the true
British ring. He waited the expected rush; it did not come. The
doorway was clear; heavy feet were trampling in frenzied haste along the
passage. With the intermittent rattle of machine-guns close at hand
came unmistakable British shouts.
Burton rushed to the window. The shutters were now in flames.
Wrenching away the bars, he thrust his head through the shattered glass,
and joyfully hailed the khaki-clad Lancers who had reined up below.
There was not a living German to be seen. The greensward and the
trampled parterres were strewn with prostrate forms. And with a rattle
and clank a battery of horse artillery galloped upon the scene.
"We are saved, madame!" cried Burton, turning back into the room. "Our
Lancers have put the Germans to flight."
"Dieu merci!" murmured the lady, falling on her knees at the bedside.
"Ah, les braves Anglais!" said the marquis, grasping Burton's right hand
with his left, and jerking his arm up and down like a pump handle.
They looked at old Pierre, who had raised himself, and was feebly
shouting: "Vivent les Anglais! Vive monsieur le sourd-muet!"
Then, to Burton's amazement, he cracked his fingers, and laughed like a
lunatic.
"The poor fellow's brain is turned," said the marquis.
"No, no, monsieur, I am not crazy. Ah, ah! it was a trick to play!"
"What are you raving about, mon vieux?" asked the marquis.
"The smoke, monsieur! The paper! I gave the spy Schwikkard a
foretaste. Ha! Surely he believed his last hour was come. See,
monsieur, I burnt some brown paper in the stove under his nose. He
would fire the chateau! Eh bien! assuredly he believed it was already
on fire. It was drole, monsieur--fine trick, n'est-ce pas?"
"Schwikkard is our prisoner, without doubt," said Burton to the marquis.
"Shall we untie him?"
At this moment entered Major Colpus of the Lancers, stepping gingerly
over the wreck of door and furniture.
"A pretty mess they have made of it," he said, with double intent. "You
are Burton?"
"That's my name."
"Captain Rolfe told us we should catch a half-regiment of hussars if we
hurried. He rather expected you would be a prisoner. We got to the
village just as some of the Germans were hauling away one Boitelet, the
village smith, it appears. They left him to us, and he gave us an
inkling that you were concerned in the rumpus here. The Germans have
skedaddled; we have a few prisoners below. You have had a whack or two,
I see."
"I wasn't aware of it," said Burton, looking with surprise at dark
stains on his blouse. "The marquis and his man are both wounded."
"Glad to meet you, monsieur," said the officer, who, with British
shyness, had affected to ignore the presence of all but Burton. Now,
however, he greeted monsieur and madame courteously, knelt down and
rendered capable first-aid to the marquis and Pierre, and seeing at a
glance that the man in bed was very ill, dispatched Burton for the
regimental medico.
It was not until the doctor was engaged with his patients that Burton
found an opportunity of releasing Major Schwikkard, and handing him as a
prisoner to the British officer. He was scarcely recognisable. The
long vigil, with the dread of being roasted by his own instructions, had
broken him both in body and mind. He looked years older. His cheeks
had fallen in, his whole frame shook, and his hair was patched with
white. When Major Colpus addressed him cheerily, he stammered, tried to
complete a sentence, and burst into tears.
"Poor wretch!" the major murmured. "Doctor, here's another patient for
you. Now, Mr. Burton, come and tell me all that has happened."
"I want to get back to my aeroplane," protested Burton.
"No hurry for that. Your friend, the smith, has borrowed a spare mount,
and ridden off to the town to fetch something or other for it. I shan't
let you off."
Burton growled that there was not much to tell, and turned to take his
leave of the old marquis and his wife. In their over-flowing emotion
they could hardly speak.
"God bless you, monsieur!" said the marquise, brokenly. "You have saved
us all. Your doctor says that my son will recover. Take a mother's
thanks, and wear this, monsieur. May the good God preserve you!"