head and crept on, parting leaves and branches with one hand,
holding the other over his eyes. The thought that he might be
moving in a circle filled him with fear. But that was exactly
what he was doing, for now he found himself close to the park
wall; and, listening, he heard the river murmuring among the
alders. He halted, utterly at a loss. If he were caught again
could Rickerl save him? What could a captain of Uhlans do? True,
he had interfered with Von Steyr's hangman's work, but that was
nothing but a reprieve at best.
The murmur of the river filled his ears; his hot throat was
cracking. Drink he must, at any rate, and he started on in the
darkness, moving stealthily over the moss. The water was closer
than he had imagined; he bent above it, first touching it with
groping hands, then noiselessly bathed his feverish face in the
dark stream, drinking his fill.
He longed to follow the shallow stream, wading to Morteyn, but he
dared not risk it; so he went along the bank as far as he could,
trying to keep within sound of the waters, until again he found
himself close to the park wall. The stream had vanished again.
Dawn began to gray the forest; little by little the nearest trees
grew from the darkness, and bushes took vague shapes in the
gloom. He strained his eyes, peering at every object near him,
striving to recognize stones, saplings, but he could not. Even
when dawn at last came up out of the east, and the thickets grew
distinct, he did not know where he was. A line of vapour through
the trees marked the course of the little river. Which way was
it flowing? Even that he could not tell. He looked in vain for
the park wall; that had vanished utterly with the dawn. Very
cautiously he advanced over the deep forest mould to the
willow-fringed bank of the stream. The current was flowing east.
Where was he? He parted the willows and looked out, and at the
same instant an Uhlan saw him and shouted.
Running swiftly through the trees, head lowered, hands clenched,
he heard the sound of galloping on a soft road that seemed to run
through the forest, parallel to his own course. Then, as he bore
hastily to the right and plunged into the deeper undergrowth, he
caught a glimpse of the Château close by through the trees.
Horrified to find himself back at the place from which he had
started, he doubled in his tracks, ran on, stooping low, splashed
into the stream and across, and plunged up to the shoulders
through the tall weeds and bushes until again he felt the forest
leaves beneath his feet.
The sudden silence around him was disconcerting. Where had the
Uhlan gone? He ran on, making straight for the depths of the
woods, for he knew now where he was, and in which direction
safety lay.
After a while his breath and legs gave out together, and he
leaned against a beech-tree, his hands pressed to his mouth,
where the breath struggled for expulsion. And, as he leaned
there, two Uhlans, mounted, lances advanced, came picking their
way among the trees, turning their heads cautiously from side to
side. Behind these two rode six others, apparently unarmed, two
abreast. He saw at once that nothing could save him, for they
were making straight for his beech-tree. In that second of
suspense he made up his mind to die fighting, for he knew what
capture meant. He fixed his eyes on the foremost Uhlan, and
waited. When the Uhlan should pass his tree he would fly at him;
the rest could stab him to death with their lances--that was the
only way to end it now.
He shrank back, teeth set, nerving himself for the spring--a
hunted thing turned fierce, a desperate man knowing that death
was close. How long they were in coming! Had they seen him? When
would the horse's nose pass the great tree-trunk?
"Halt!" cried a voice very near. The soft trample of horses
ceased.
"Dismount!"
It seemed an age; the sluggish seconds crawled on. There was the
sound of feet among the dry forest leaves--the hum of deep
voices. He waited, trembling, for now it would be a man on foot
with naked sabre who should sink under his spring. Would he never
come?
At last, unable to stand the suspense, he moved his eyes to the
edge of the tree. There they were, a group of Uhlans standing
near two men who stood facing each other, jackets off, shirts
open to the throat.
The two men were Rickerl and Von Steyr.
Rickerl rolled up his white shirt-sleeve and tucked the cuff into
the folds, his naked sabre under his arm. Von Steyr, in shirt,
riding-breeches, and boots, stood with one leg crossed before the
other, leaning on his bared sabre. The surgeon and the two
seconds walked apart, speaking in undertones, with now and then a
quick gesture from the surgeon. The three troopers held the
horses of the party, and watched silently. When at last one of
the Uhlans spoke, they were so near that every word was perfectly
distinct to Jack:
"Gentlemen, an affair of honour in the face of the enemy is
always deplorable."
Rickerl burst out violently. "There can be no compromise--no
adjustment. Is it Lieutenant von Steyr who seeks it? Then I tell
him he is a hangman and a coward! He hangs a franc-tireur who
fires on us with explosive bullets, but he himself does not
hesitate to disgrace his uniform and regiment by firing explosive
bullets at an escaping wretch in a balloon!"
"You lie!" said Von Steyr, his face convulsed. At the same moment
the surgeon stepped forward with a gesture, the two seconds
placed themselves; somebody muttered a formula in a gross bass
voice and the swordsmen raised their heavy sabres and saluted.
The next moment they were at it like tigers; their sabres flashed
above their heads, the sabres of the seconds hovering around the
outer edge of the circle of glimmering steel like snakes coiling
to spring.
To and fro swayed the little group under the blinding flashes of
light, stroke rang on stroke, steel shivered and tinkled and
clanged on steel.
Fascinated by the spectacle, Jack crouched close to the tree,
seeing all he dared to see, but keeping a sharp eye on the three
Uhlans who were holding the horses, and who should have been
doing sentry duty also. But they were human, and their eyes could
not be dragged away from the terrible combat before them.
Suddenly, from the woods to the right, a rifle-shot rang out,
clear and sharp, and one of the Uhlans dropped the three bridles,
straightened out to his full height, trembled, and lurched
sideways. The horses, freed, backed into the other horses; the
two remaining Uhlans tried to seize them, but another shot rang
out--another, and then another. In the confusion and turmoil a
voice cried: "Mount, for God's sake!" but one of the horses was
already free, and was galloping away riderless through the woods.
A terrible yell arose from the underbrush, where a belt of smoke
hung above the bushes, and again the rifles cracked. Von Steyr
turned and seized a horse, throwing himself heavily across the
saddle; the surgeon and the two seconds scrambled into their
saddles, and the remaining pair of Uhlans, already mounted,
wheeled their horses and galloped headlong into the woods.
Jack saw Rickerl set his foot in the stirrup, but his horse was
restive and started, dragging him.
"Hurry, Herr Hauptmann!" cried a Uhlan, passing him at a gallop.
Rickerl cast a startled glance over his shoulder, where, from the
thickets, a dozen franc-tireurs were springing towards him,
shouting and shaking their chassepots. Something had given
way--Jack saw that--for the horse started on at a trot, snorting
with fright. He saw Rickerl run after him, seize the bridle,
stumble, recover, and hang to the stirrup; but the horse tore
away and left him running on behind, one hand grasping his naked
sabre, one clutching a bit of the treacherous bridle.
"À mort les Uhlans!" shouted the franc-tireurs, their ferocious
faces lighting up as Rickerl's horse eluded its rider and crashed
away through the saplings.
Rickerl cast one swift glance at the savage faces, turned his
head like a trapped wolf in a pit, hesitated, and started to run.
A chorus of howls greeted him: "À mort!" "À mort le voleur!" "À
la lanterne les Uhlans!"
Scarcely conscious of what he was doing, Jack sprang from his
tree and ran parallel to Rickerl.
"Ricky!" he called in English--"follow me! Hurry! hurry!"
The franc-tireurs could not see Jack, but they heard his voice,
and answered it with a roar. Rickerl, too, heard it, and he also
heard the sound of Jack's feet crashing through the willows along
the river-bottom.
"Jack!" he cried.
"Quick! Take to the river-bank!" shouted Jack in English again.
In a moment they were running side by side up the river-bottom,
hidden from the view of the franc-tireurs.
"Do as I do," panted Jack. "Throw your sabre away and follow me.
It's our last chance." But Rickerl clung to his sabre and ran on.
And now the park wall rose right in their path, seeming to block
all progress.
"We can't get over--it's ended," gasped Rickerl.
"Yes, we can--follow," whispered Jack, and dashed straight into
the river where it washed the base of the wall.
"Do exactly as I do. Follow close," urged Jack; and, wading to the
edge of the wall, he felt along under the water for a moment, then
knelt down, ducked his head, gave a wriggle, and disappeared.
Rickerl followed him, kneeling and ducking his head. At the same
moment he felt a powerful current pulling him forward, and, groping
around under the shallow water, his hands encountered the rim of a
large iron conduit. He stuck his head into it, gave himself a push,
and shot through the short pipe into a deep pool on the other side
of the wall, from which Jack dragged him dripping and exhausted.
"You are my prisoner!" said Jack, between his gasps. "Give me
your sabre, Ricky--quick! Look yonder!" A loud explosion followed
his words, and a column of smoke rose above the foliage of the
vineyard before them.
"Artillery!" blurted out Rickerl, in amazement.
"French artillery--look out! Here come the franc-tireurs over the
wall! Give me that sabre and run for the French lines--if you
don't want to hang!" And, as Rickerl hesitated, with a scowl of
hate at the franc-tireurs now swarming over the wall, Jack seized
the sabre and jerked it violently from his hand.
"You're crazy!" he muttered. "Run for the batteries!--here, this
way!"
A franc-tireur fired at them point-blank, and the bullet whistled
between them. "Leave me. Give me my sabre," said Rickerl, in a
low voice.
"Then we'll both stay."
"Leave me! I'll not hang, I tell you."
"No."
The franc-tireurs were running towards them.
"They'll kill us both. Here they come!"
"You stood by me--" said Jack, in a faint voice.
Rickerl looked him in the eyes, hesitated, and cried, "I
surrender! Come on! Hurry, Jack--for your sister's sake!"
XX
SIR THORALD IS SILENT
It was a long run to the foot of the vineyard hill, where, on the
crest, deep hidden among the vines, three cannon clanged at
regular intervals, stroke following stroke, like the thundering
summons of a gigantic tocsin.
Behind them they saw the franc-tireurs for a moment, thrashing
waist-deep through the rank marsh weeds; then, as they plunged
into a wheat-field, the landscape disappeared, and all around the
yellow grain rustled, waving above their heads, dense, sun-heated,
suffocating.
Their shoes sank ankle-deep in the reddish-yellow soil; they
panted, wet with perspiration as they ran. Jack still clutched
Rickerl's sabre, and the tall corn, brushing the blade, fell
under the edge, keen as a scythe.
"I can go no farther," breathed Jack, at last. "Wait a moment,
Ricky."
The hot air in the depths of the wheat was stifling, and they
stretched their heads above the sea of golden grain, gasping like
fishes in a bowl.
"Perhaps I won't have to surrender you, after all," said Jack.
"Do you see that old straw-stack on the slope? If we could reach
the other slope--"
He held out his hand to gauge the exact direction, then bent
again and plodded towards it, Rickerl jogging in his footprints.
As they pressed on under the rustling canopy, the sound of the
cannon receded, for they were skirting the vineyard at the base
of the hill, bearing always towards the south. And now they came
to the edge of the long field, beyond which stretched another
patch of stubble. The straw-stack stood half-way up the slope.
"Here's your sabre," motioned Jack. He was exhausted and reeled
about in the stubble, but Rickerl passed one arm about him, and,
sabre clutched in the other hand, aided him to the straw-stack.
The fresh wind strengthened them both; the sweat cooled and dried
on their throbbing faces. They leaned against the stack,
breathing heavily, the breeze blowing their wet hair, the solemn
cannon-din thrilling their ears, stroke on stroke.
"The thing is plain to me," gasped Rickerl, pointing to the
smoke-cloud eddying above the vineyard--"a brigade or two of
Frossard's corps have been cut off and hurled back towards Nancy.
Their rear-guard is making a stand--that's all. Jack, what on
earth did you get into such a terrible scrape for?"
Jack, panting full length in the shadow of the straw-stack, told
Rickerl the whole wretched story, from the time of his leaving
Forbach, after having sent the despatches to the _Herald_, up to
the moment he had called to Rickerl there in the meadow,
surrounded by Uhlans, a rope already choking him senseless.
Rickerl listened impassively, playing with the sabre on his
knees, glancing right and left across the country with his
restless baby-blue eyes. When Jack finished he said nothing, but
it was plain enough how seriously he viewed the matter.
"As for your damned Uhlans," ended Jack, "I have tried to keep
out of their way. It's a relief to me to know that I didn't kill
that trooper; but--confound him!--he shot at me so enthusiastically
that I thought it time to join the party myself. Ricky, would they
have hanged me if they had given me a fair court-martial?"
"As a favour they might have shot you," replied Rickerl,
gloomily.
"Then," said Jack, "there are two things left for me to do--go to
Paris, which I can't unless Mademoiselle de Nesville goes, or
join some franc-tireur corps and give the German army as good as
they send. If you Uhlans think," he continued, violently, "that
you're coming into France to hang and shoot and raise hell
without getting hell in return, you're a pack of idiots!"
"The war is none of your affair," said Rickerl, flushing. "You
brought it on yourself--this hanging business. Good heavens! the
whole thing makes me sick! I can't believe that two weeks ago we
were all there together at Morteyn--"
"A pretty return you're making for Morteyn hospitality!" blurted
out Jack. Then, shocked at what he had said, he begged Rickerl's
pardon and bitterly took himself to task.
"I _am_ a fool, Ricky; I know you've got to follow your regiment,
and I know it must cut you to the heart. Don't mind what I say;
I'm so miserable and bewildered, and I haven't got the feeling
of that rope off my neck yet."
Rickerl raised his hand gently, but his face was hard set.
"Jack, you don't begin to know what a hell I am living in, I who
care so much for France and the French people, to know that all,
all is ended forever, that I can never again--"
His voice choked; he cleared it and went on: "The very name of
Uhlan is held in horror in France now; the word Prussian is a
curse when it falls from French lips. God knows why we are
fighting! We Germans obey, that is all. I am a captain in a
Prussian cavalry regiment; the call comes, that is all that I
know. And here I am, riding through the land I love; I sit on my
horse and see the torch touched to field and barn; I see
railroads torn out of the ground, I see wretched peasants hung to
the rafters of their own cottages." He lowered his voice; his
face grew paler. "I see the friend I care most for in all the
world, a rope around his neck, my own troopers dragging him to
the vilest death a man can die! That is war! Why? I am a
Prussian, it is not necessary for me to know; but the regiment
moves, and I move! it halts, I halt! it charges, retreats, burns,
tramples, rends, devastates! I am always with it, unless some
bullet settles me. For this war is nearly ended, Jack, nearly
ended--a battle or two, a siege or two, nothing more. What can
stand against us? Not this bewildered France."
Jack was silent.
Rickerl's blue eyes sought his; he rested his square chin on one
hand and spoke again:
"Jack, do you know that--that I love your sister?"
"Her last letter said as much," replied Jack, coldly.
Rickerl watched his face.
"You are sorry?"
"I don't know; I had hoped she would marry an American. Have you
spoken?"
"Yes." This was a chivalrous falsehood; it was Dorothy who had
spoken first, there in the gravel drive as he rode away from
Morteyn.
Jack glanced at him angrily.
"It was not honourable," he said; "my aunt's permission should
have been asked, as you know; also, incidentally, my own.
Does--does Dorothy care for you? Oh, you need not answer that; I
think she does. Well, this war may change things."
"Yes," said Rickerl, sadly.
"I don't mean that," cried Jack; "Heaven knows I wouldn't have
you hurt, Ricky; don't think I meant that--"
"I don't," said Rickerl, half smiling; "you risked your skin to
save me half an hour ago."
"And you called off your bloody pack of hangmen for me," said
Jack; "I'm devilish grateful, Ricky--indeed I am--and you know
I'd be glad to have you in the family if--if it wasn't for this
cursed war. Never mind, Dorothy generally has what she wants,
even if it's--"
"Even if it's an Uhlan?" suggested Rickerl, gravely.
Jack smiled and laid his hand on Rickerl's arm.
"She ought to see you now, bareheaded, dusty, in your
shirt-sleeves! You're not much like the attaché at the
Diplomatic ball--eh, Ricky? If you marry Dorothy I'll punch your
head. Come on, we've got to find out where we are."
"That's my road," observed Rickerl, quietly, pointing across the
fields.
"Where? Why?"
"Don't you see?"
Jack searched the distant landscape in vain.
"No, are the Germans there? Oh, now I see. Why, it's a squadron
of your cursed Uhlans!"
"Yes," said Rickerl, mildly.
"Then they've been chased out of the Château de Nesville!"
"Probably. They may come back. Jack, can't you get out of this
country?"
"Perhaps," replied Jack, soberly. He thought of Lorraine, of the
marquis lying mangled and dead in the forest beside the fragments
of his balloon.
"Your Lieutenant von Steyr is a dirty butcher," he said. "I hope
you'll finish him when you find him."
"He fired explosive bullets, which your franc-tireurs use on us,"
retorted Rickerl, growing red.
"Oh," cried Jack in disgust, "the whole business makes me sick!
Ricky, give me your hand--there! Don't let this war end our
friendship. Go to your Uhlans now. As for me, I must get back to
Morteyn. What Lorraine will do, where she can go, how she will
stand this ghastly news, I don't know; and I wish there was
somebody else to tell her. My uncle and aunt have already gone to
Paris, they said they would not wait for me. Lorraine is at
Morteyn, alone except for her maid, and she is probably
frightened at my not returning as I promised. Do you think you
can get to your Uhlans safely? They passed into the grove beyond
the hills. What the mischief are those cannon shelling, anyway?
Well, good-by! Better not come up the hill with me, or you'll
have to part with your sabre for good. We did lose our franc-tireur
friends beautifully. I'll write Dorothy; I'll tell her that I
captured you, sabre and all. Good-by! Good-by, old fellow! If
you'll promise not to get a bullet in your blond hide I'll promise
to be a brother-in-law to you!"
Rickerl looked very manly as he stood there, booted, bareheaded,
his thin shirt, soaked with sweat, outlining his muscular figure.
They lingered a moment, hands closely clasped, looking gravely
into each other's faces. Then, with a gesture, half sad, half
friendly, Rickerl started across the stubble towards the distant
grove where his Uhlans had taken cover.
Jack watched him until his white shirt became a speck, a dot, and
finally vanished among the trees on the blue hill. When he was
gone, Jack turned sharply away and climbed the furze-covered
slope from whence he hoped to see the cannon, now firing only at
five-minute intervals. As he toiled up the incline he carefully
kept himself under cover, for he had no desire to meet any lurking
franc-tireurs. It is true that, even when the franc-tireurs had
been closest, there in the swamp among the rank marsh grasses, the
distance was too great for them to have identified him with certainty.
But he thought it best to keep out of their way until within hail of
the regular troops, so he took advantage of bushes and inequalities
of the slope to reconnoitre the landscape before he reached the
summit of the ridge. There was a tufted thicket of yellow broom in
flower on the crest of the ridge; behind this he lay and looked out
across the plain.
A little valley separated this hill from the vineyard, terraced
up to the north, ridge upon ridge. The cannon smoke shot up from
the thickets of vines, rose, and drifted to the west, blotting
out the greater portion of the vineyard. The cannon themselves
were invisible. At times Jack fancied he saw a human silhouette
when the white smoke rushed outward, but the spectral vines
loomed up everywhere through the dense cannon-fog and he could
not be sure.
However, there were plenty of troops below the hill now--infantry
of the line trudging along the dusty road in fairly good order,
and below the vineyard, among the uncut fields of flax, more
infantry crouched, probably supporting the three-gun battery on
the hill.
At that distance he could not tell a franc-tireur from any
regular foot-soldier except line-infantry; their red caps and
trousers were never to be mistaken. As he looked, he wondered at
a nation that clothed its troops in a colour that furnished such
a fearfully distinct mark to the enemy. A French army, moving,
cannot conceal itself; the red of trousers and caps, the
mirror-like reflections of cuirass and casque and lance-tip,
advertise the presence of French troops so persistently that an
enemy need never fear any open landscape by daylight.
Jack watched the cannonade, lying on his stomach, chin supported
by both hands. He was perfectly cool now; he neither feared the
Uhlans nor the franc-tireurs. For a while he vainly tried to
comprehend the reason of the cannonade; the shells shot out
across the valley in tall curves, dropping into a distant bit of
hazy blue woodland, or exploded above the trees; the column of
infantry below plodded doggedly southward; the infantry in the
flax-field lay supine. Clearly something was interfering with the
retreat of the troops--something that threatened them from those
distant woods. And now he could see cavalry moving about the
crest of the nearer hills, but, without his glass, it was not
possible to tell what they were. Often he looked at the nearer
forest that hid the Château de Nesville. Somewhere within those
sombre woods lay the dead marquis.
With a sigh he rose to his knees, shivered in the sunshine,
passed one hand over his forehead, and finally stood up. Hunger
had made him faint; his head grew dizzy.
"It must be noon, at least," he muttered, and started down the
hill and across the fields towards the woods of Morteyn. As he
walked he pulled the bearded wheat from ripening stems and chewed
it to dull his hunger. The raw place on his neck, where the rope
had chafed, stung when the perspiration started. He moved quickly
but warily, keeping a sharp lookout on every side. Once he passed
a miniature vineyard, heavy with white-wine grapes; and, as he
threaded a silent path among the vines, he ate his fill and
slaked his thirst with the cool amber fruit. He had reached the
edge of the little vineyard, and was about to cross a tangle of
briers and stubble, when something caught his eye in the thicket;
it was a man's face--and he stopped.
For a minute they stared at each other, making no movement, no
sound.
"Sir Thorald!"--faltered Jack.
But Sir Thorald Hesketh could not speak, for he had a bullet
through his lungs.
As Jack sprang into the brier tangle towards him, a slim figure
in the black garments of the Sisters of Mercy rose from Sir
Thorald's side. He saw the white cross on her breast, he saw the
white face above it and the whiter lips.
It was Alixe von Elster.