The Dash
A curt command, and Max sprang to his feet. The last lap in the final of
his life's race had been begun, and it was now for him to score a
glorious win. For a win it was, even with his life sacrificed at the end
of the race. Max well understood this, and it was with a proud, though
steady, thoughtful air that he followed the non-commissioned officer who
summoned him from his cell.
Through a fine marble hall, that had so short a time before echoed with
the footsteps of Belgians, and was now thronged with Prussian officers
and their servants, Max was led. Out at the wide portico and into the
open square, full in view of a large crowd assembled to do silent honour
to a patriot; but only for a moment, for a sharp word of command rang
out and a score of men closed round him, and with short military steps
marched him rapidly through the crowd.
Max was dressed exactly as he was when he gave himself up. He had had no
opportunity to wash or to make himself presentable for that last hour;
unkempt, bareheaded, but erect and outwardly serene, he strode along,
conscious that he was not only an example from the German point of view,
but an example, and a greater one, to the Belgians. He tried to tell
himself that the unscrupulousness of the Germans should not have the
effect they desired, that his execution should be a rallying-point for
all true hearts in Liege and a turning-point so far as their little
locality was concerned.
But though Max was outwardly calm and serene, inwardly he was deeply
anguished. It was not a small thing to him to lay down, so to speak, his
tools and to leave to others the continuance of the good work. His
mother and sister, too--he could not think of them without many and
bitter pangs. However, he strove hard to hold at bay such thoughts and
to go down strongly to the parting of the ways.
With monotonous tramp his escort marched unmoved along. Max marched in
the middle, unbound like a prisoner of war rather than the miscreant he
had been called. Once away from the governor's palace the people were
sparse--ones and twos and a few groups here and there--until the gates
of the Durend works came in sight.
Here there was a larger crowd. There always was a small crowd about the
gates, for the number of Belgians who still refused to work was
considerable, and these men passed much of their time outside, gloomily
scanning the many evidences of abounding work, and discussing in low
tones the progress of the war.
It wanted only twenty minutes to noon, and at that hour Max knew he
would take his last look upon the things of this world. It was hard, he
could not help thinking, but----
"_Get ready!_"
Those words, spoken in English, sounded in his ears. They seemed uttered
in the sing-song tones he knew so well, in which the starter of a rowing
contest prepared to send off the crews waiting in eager readiness before
him. Max looked curiously about him. He knew he must be dreaming, and
yet he had not been conscious at that moment of dreaming of the old days
at Hawkesley. How far away they seemed--and how jolly--he would never
know such glorious times again. A fresh wave of new regrets passed
through his mind. It was----
"_Are you ready?_"
This time Max looked more sharply about him. He was not dreaming, he was
sure now. The words had certainly been uttered, and again in the
sing-song of the Hawkesley starter. No one but Dale could have uttered
them, and Dale it must be. Where was he?
A man carrying a big packing-case was at the side of the road on his
right a dozen yards or so ahead. The packing-case hid his face, but his
gait seemed somewhat familiar even while moving under his burden. He was
slanting towards the prisoner's escort, the foremost of whom had now
reached the outer edge of the big crowd assembled outside the gates.
What did the words mean? What but that he was to act as though the
greatest contest of his life was before him--aye, one with his very life
for the prize! The zest for life, the deep-rooted objection to give up
his task half done, the old sporting instinct to battle to the very
finish, all combined to brace Max's nerve to a point at which nothing
was impossible. Ready?--aye, he was ready and more than ready--all he
waited for was the signal he knew was close at hand.
Suddenly something dark flew through the air. Ere it touched the ground
another and another followed. Three tremendous explosions took place at
the very feet of the men of his escort in front of him. The officer and
four of the men fell to the ground, and escort and crowd surged back and
away in all directions.
"_Go!_"
Like a shot from a gun, Max dived into the crowd on his right. Not a man
of his escort put out a hand to stop him. The surprise was complete, and
in an instant Max was in the midst of the crowd of men already on the
move, flying in terror from the scene of the fearful explosions which
had killed five of the soldiers and injured others as well as some of
the nearest of the crowd. Four more explosions followed hard on his
heels, just behind him, and he guessed they had occurred in the middle
of the rearmost of his escort.
The crowd scattered in all directions. Max followed those who fled
towards the open country, and in a few minutes he was on the outskirts
of the town. Hardly turning to right or left, he sped on at top speed.
It was his own safety he had now to look to, his own race to win, and he
put out all the energy he possessed.
Out of the town and up the heights into the open country he ran, and it
was not until he was practically beyond pursuit that he slackened and
looked about him. Only one solitary figure was in sight, a quarter of a
mile behind, and he was clearly not a soldier. In fact, as Max slowed
down and looked back, the man waved a hand. It was Dale, and with a
feeling of tremendous joy and gratitude Max dashed back to meet him.
"By George, Max--you are no end of a sprinter!" Dale gasped as they met.
"I had no idea--you were such a hot man on the track."
"Ah! Wait until you are under sentence of death and see what speed you
can work up to. I am glad--I can't tell you how glad--to get away from
there. And you are a brick, Dale, a real brick."
"Nonsense, old man, the boot is on the other leg altogether. I am still
fathoms deep in your debt."
"Come out of the road into the wood here where we shall be safer. What
about Dubec--he was in it, of course?"
"Yes; and _he_ has been a brick, if you like. It was he that got us the
hand-grenades--Schenk has just started making them--and he was one of
those who pitched them into the middle of the Germans. Ha! Ha! Schenk
will know that they were his own grenades when he hears about it. I
guess it will not improve his temper."
"Is Dubec following?"
"No, he is safe at home, I expect, by now. He will be all right. They
have nothing against him, and he is not going to the Durend yard again.
He is going to apply for work at the mines instead."
"Good! then we can be off?"
"Aye--though we haven't fixed up where we are to go. We were too busy
over the rescue to think about anything else."
"Well, we ought to give Liege a rest. Let us go for another trip into
the Ardennes until this affair has blown over and we can return to the
attack once more. We have earned a rest, and I for one feel I need it."
"Hear! hear! I've got my wind again, so let us make tracks before the
Germans send out patrols to hunt about the countryside. It would be too
bad to be captured after hoodwinking them so thoroughly."
"Not to mention killing and wounding an officer and several men."
Chatting gaily together, but nevertheless keeping a sharp look-out, the
two friends strode along out into the open lands southward of the town,
and then on towards the wide stretch of broken highlands known as the
Ardennes. They had no clear idea of what they would do when they got
there, the one thought in their minds being to find some quiet rural
spot where they could remain in safety and quietude for a little while.
It was certainly as well for them to do so, for the daring and
successful rescue of the prisoner under sentence of death stirred the
city of Liege to its very depths. To the people it was an example of
courage and self-sacrifice joined to determined and skilful leadership;
to the Germans it was most exasperating evidence of their inability to
crush this people notwithstanding their many and varied methods of
repression. The affair was hushed up by the governor so far as he was
able to do so, but it eventually became known that it had been the cause
of a violent altercation between him and the manager of the Durend
works, Herr von Schenkendorf, who was said to have made a strong
complaint to the Imperial Government at the bungling of the military.
Be that as it may, it was certain that no stone was left unturned to
recapture the prisoner and to find out who were the workmen
participating in the rescue. Nothing was ever discovered, but the
manager of the Durend works from that time forward refused to employ any
Walloon workmen anywhere save in the Durend colleries, where they were
supposed to be incapable of doing any serious damage.