Who Goes There! E-Book

Robert W. Chambers

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

This story is about the Crown Prince. Most of the world is against him and what he stands for. He expresses surprise at the position of the United States. This attitude is the natural result of various causes, among which are the following: Distrust of any aggressor on the part of a peace-minded nation.

Leseprobe

Contents

PREFACE

CHAPTER I. IN THE MIST

CHAPTER II. THE MAN IN GREY

CHAPTER III. TIPPERARY

CHAPTER IV. BAD DREAMS

CHAPTER V. KAREN

CHAPTER VI. MR. AND MRS

CHAPTER VII. THE SATCHEL

CHAPTER VIII. AT SEA

CHAPTER IX. H. M. S. WYVERN

CHAPTER X. FORCE

CHAPTER XI. STRATEGY

CHAPTER XII. IN THE RAIN

CHAPTER XIII. THE DAY OF WRATH

CHAPTER XIV. HER ENEMY

CHAPTER XV. IN CONFIDENCE

CHAPTER XVI. THE FOREST LISTENS

CHAPTER XVII. HER FIRST CAMPAIGN

CHAPTER XVIII. LESSE FOREST

CHAPTER XIX. THE LIAR

CHAPTER XX. BEFORE DINNER

CHAPTER XXI. SNIPERS

CHAPTER XXII. DRIVEN GAME

CHAPTER XXIII. CANDLE LIGHT

CHAPTER XXIV. A PERSONAL AFFAIR

CHAPTER XXV. WHO GOES THERE!

CHAPTER XXVI. AMICUS DEI

PREFACE

The Crown Prince is partly right; the majority in the world is against him and what he stands for; but not against Germany and the Germans.

He professes surprise at the attitude of the United States. That attitude is the natural result of various causes among which are the following:

Distrust of any aggressor by a nation inclined toward peace.

Disgust at the “scrap of paper” episode.

Resentment at the invasion of Belgium.

Contempt for the Imperial Government which is industriously screwing the last penny of “indemnity” out of a ruined nation, which the people of the United States are taxing their private means to keep from starvation.

Further back there are other reasons.

For thirty years the press of Germany has seldom missed an opportunity to express its contempt for Americans. Any American who has ever lived in Germany or who has read German newspapers during the last thirty years is aware of the tone of the German press concerning America and Americans. No innuendoes have been too vulgar, no sneers too brutal for the editors of these papers, and, presumably for the readers.

Also Americans do not forget the attitude of the Imperial Government during the Spanish war. The bad manners of a German Admiral are bearing fruit.

Imperialism we Americans do not understand, but it need not make us unfriendly to empires.

But we do understand when manners are bad, or when a military caste, which maintains its traditions of personal honour by violence, becomes arrogant to the point of brutality.

A false notion of personal honour is alone enough to prevent a sympathetic understanding between two peoples.

America is not an enemy to Germany, only is it inexorably opposed to any Government which breaks faith; and which enthrones above all other gods the god of violence.

For the German soldiers who are dying in this Hohenzollern-Hapsburg war we have only sympathy and pity. We know they are as brave as any soldiers; that cruelty in the German Army is in no greater proportion than it is in any army.

But also we know that the cause of Imperial Germany is wrong; her civilization is founded on propositions impossible for any American to accept; her aims, ambitions, and ideals antagonistic to the progress to communal and individual liberty as we understand the terms. And that settles the matter for us.

CHAPTER I

IN THE MIST

They had selected for their business the outer face of an old garden wall. There were red tiles on the coping; dusty roadside vines half covered the base. Where plaster had peeled off a few weather-beaten bricks showed. Bees hummed in the trampled herbage.

Against this wall they backed the first six men. One, a mere boy, was crying, wiping his frightened eyes on his shirt-sleeve.

The dry crash of the volley ended the matter; all the men against the wall collapsed. Presently one of them, the boy who had been crying, moved his arm in the grass. A rifle spoke instantly, and he moved no more.

There came a low-spoken word of command, the firing squad shouldered rifles, wheeled, and moved off; and out of the sea-grey masses of infantry another squad of execution came marching up, smartly.

A dozen men, some in sabots, trousers, and dirty collarless shirts, some in well-cut business suits and straw hats, and all with their wrists tied behind them, stood silently awaiting their turns. One among them, a young man wearing a golf-cap, knickerbockers, heather-spats, and an absolutely colourless face, stood staring at the tumbled heaps of clothing along the foot of the wall as though stupified.

Six peasants went first; the men more smartly attired were to wait a little longer it appeared.

The emotionless and methodical preparations, the brisk precision of the operation, the cheerful celerity of the firing squad made it the more terrifying, stunning the victims to immobility.

The young man in the golf-cap and knickerbockers clenched his tied hands. Not an atom of colour remained in cheeks or lips, and he stood with face averted while the squad of execution was busy with its business.

There seemed to be some slight disorder along the wall–a defiant voice was raised hoarsely cursing all Germans; another, thin and hysterical, cheered for Belgium and the young King. Also this firing squad must have aimed badly, for bayonet and rifle-butt were used afterward and some delay occurred; and an officer, revolver swinging, prowled along the foot of the wall, kicking inquiringly at the dead heaps of heavy flesh that had collapsed there.

Houses lining the single village street began to leak smoke; smoke writhed and curled behind closed window-panes. Here and there a mounted Uhlan forced his big horse up on the sidewalk and drove his lance butt through the window glass.

Already the street was swimming in thin strata of smoke; the sea-grey uniforms of the German infantry seemed part of the haze; only the faces of the soldiery were visible–faces without bodies, thousands of flat, detached faces, thousands of little pig eyes set in a blank and foggy void. And over everything in the close, heavy air brooded the sour stench of a sweat-soaked, unwashed army.

A third squad of execution came swinging up, apparently out of nowhere, their heavy half-boots clumping in unison on the stony street.

The young man in the golf-cap and knickerbockers heard them coming and bit his bloodless lip.

After a moment the rhythm of the heavy boots ceased. The street became very silent, save where window glass continually fell tinkling to the sidewalk and the feathery whisper of flames became more audible from within the row of empty houses.

The young man lifted his eyes to the sombre and sunless sky. High up there above the mist and heavy bands of smoke he saw the feathery tops of tall trees, motionless.

Presently through the silence came the clatter of hoofs; Uhlans cantered past, pennons whipping from lance heads; then a soft two-toned bugle-call announced an automobile; and presently it loomed up, huge, through the parted ranks of the infantry, a great grey, low-purring bulk, slowing, halting, still purring.

A grey-clad general officer sat in the tonneau, a grey-uniformed hussar was seated beside the grey-liveried chauffeur.

As the car stopped several officers were already beside the running-board, halted stiffly at attention. The general officer, his cigar between his gloved fingers, leaned over the edge of the tonneau and said something in a very quiet voice.

Instantly a slim, stiff infantry captain saluted, wheeled sharply, and walked straight to the little file of prisoners who stood with their wrists tied behind their backs, looking vacantly at the automobile.

“Which is the prisoner-hostage who says he is American?” he snapped out in his nasal Prussian voice.

The young man who wore a golf-cap took a short step forward, hesitated.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Fall in again!”

The officer nodded to a sergeant of infantry, and a squad of men shoved the prisoners into single file, facing not the fatal wall, but westward, along the street.

“March!” said somebody. And the next moment again: “Halt!” rang out with the snapping brevity of a cracked whip. The general officer leaned from the grey tonneau and looked steadily along the file of hostages until his glance fell upon the young man in the golf-cap.

“What is your name?” he asked quietly in English.

“My name is Guild.”

“The rest?”

“Kervyn Guild.”

“You say you are American?”

“Yes.”

The general officer looked at him for a moment longer, then said something to the hussar aide-de-camp.

The aide threw open the car door and jumped out. A lieutenant took command of the escort. The hussar whispered instructions, turned and came to attention beside the running-board, then, at a nod from the general officer, jumped up beside the chauffeur. There came the soft-toned, mellow warning of the bugle; the grey machine glided off into the mist; the prisoners and escort followed it, marching briskly.

As they passed the end of the street two houses on their right suddenly roared up in one vast, smoke-shot tower of flame, and a brassy glare lighted up the mist around them.

Somewhere near by a woman began to scream; farther down the street, more windows and doors were being beaten in. From farther away, still, came the strains of military music, resonant, full, magnificent. A detail passed with spades to bury the dead who lay under the wall. All was order, precision, and cheerful despatch. The infantry column, along the halted flanks of which the prisoners were now being marched, came to attention. Company after company marked time, heavily; shouldered rifles. Uhlans in file came spurring through the centre of the street; a cyclist followed, rifle slung across his back, sitting at ease on his machine and gazing curiously about.

Out of the end of the village street marched the prisoners and their escort, but presently halted again.

Directly in front of them stood the grey automobile drawn up by the roadside before a pair of iron gates. The gates swung from high stucco walls. On top of the walls were soldiers sitting, rifle on knee; a machine gun commanded the drive, and across the gravel more soldiers were digging a trench, setting posts, and stringing barbed wire which they unwound from great wooden reels.

Through the gates escort and prisoners threaded their way, across a lawn already trampled by cavalry, and straight on toward a pleasant looking and somewhat old-fashioned house set amid older trees and shrubbery, badly broken.

Half a dozen grey-clad staff officers were eating and drinking on the low stone terrace; their horses picketed on the lawn, nibbled the crushed shrubbery. Sentries pacing the terrace and on guard at the door came to attention as the lieutenant in charge of the escort marched his prisoners in.

At a word from him an infantryman went from prisoner to prisoner untying the cords that bound their wrists behind them. Then they were marched into an old-fashioned drawing-room on the left, sentries were placed, the remainder of the escort sat down on the floor with their loaded rifles on their laps and their backs against the wall. Their officer, the lieutenant, walked across the hallway to the room on the left, where the sentry admitted him, then closed the door and resumed his heavy pacing of the black-tiled hall.

The sergeant in charge of the escort lifted his helmet with its grey-cloth covering, scratched his bullet head, yawned. Then he said, jerking a huge thumb toward the drawing-room: “There’s a good wall in the garden behind the house. They’ll make the fruit grow all the better–these Belgians.”

The lieutenant, coming out of the room opposite, overheard him.

“What your crops need,” he said in a mincing Berlin voice, “is plenty of good English filth to spade under. See that you bring in a few cart-loads.”

And he went into the drawing-room where the prisoners stood by the windows looking out silently at a great pall of smoke which was hanging over the village through which they had just been marched.

“Which of you is the alleged American?” said the lieutenant in hesitating but correct English.

The young man in knickerbockers rose from a brocaded armchair.

“Follow me. General von Reiter does you the honour to question you.”

The young man looked the lieutenant straight in the eye and smiled, stiffly perhaps, because his face was still pallid and the breath of death still chilled it.

“The honour,” he said in an agreeably modulated voice, “is General von Reiter’s. But I fear he won’t realize it.”

“What’s that!” said the lieutenant sharply.

But young Guild shrugged his shoulders. “You wouldn’t understand either. Besides you are too talkative for an underling. Do your duty–if you know how.”

“Swine of a Yankee,” said the lieutenant, speaking slowly and with painful precision, “do you suppose you are in your own sty of a Republic? Silence! A Prussian officer commands you! March!”

Guild dropped his hands into the pockets of his belted jacket. “You little shrimp,” he said good humouredly, and followed the officer, who had now drawn his sword.

Out into the hall they filed, across it to the closed door. The sentry on duty there opened it; the lieutenant, very red in the face, delivered his prisoner, then, at a nod from the grey-clad officer who was sitting behind a writing desk, saluted, faced about, and marched out. The door closed sharply behind him.

CHAPTER II

THE MAN IN GREY

Young Guild looked steadily at the man in grey, and the man in grey gazed as steadily back from behind his desk.

He was a man of forty-five, lean, well built, blond, and of regular features save that his cheek-bones were a trifle high, which seemed to crowd his light blue eyes, make them narrower, and push them into a very slight slant. He had the well-groomed aspect of a Prussian officer, dry of skin, clean-shaven save for the mustache en croc, which his bony but powerful and well-kept hands absently caressed at intervals.

His forehead was broad and benevolent, but his eyes modified the humanity and his mouth almost denied it–a mouth firm without shrewdness, not bad, not cruel for the sake of cruelty, yet moulded in lines which promised no hope other than that iron justice which knows no mercy.

“Mr. Guild?”

“Yes, General.”

General von Reiter folded his bony hands and rested them on the blotter.

“You say that you are American?”

“Yes.”

“How came you to be among the Yslemont hostages?”

“I was stopping at the Hotel Poste when the Uhlans and cyclists suddenly appeared. The captain of Uhlans took the Burgomaster with whom I had been playing chess, myself, the notary, and other leading citizens.”

“Did you tell him you are American?”

“Yes. But he paid no attention.”

“Had you a passport?”

“Yes.”

“Other papers to establish your identity?”

“A few business letters from New York. They read them, but told me they were of no use to me.”

“Why did you not communicate with your nearest Consul or with the American Minister in Brussels?”

“They refused me the use of telephone and telegraph. They said that I am Belgian and properly liable to be taken as hostage for the good behaviour of Yslemont.”

General von Reiter’s hand was lifted meditatively to his mustache. He said: “What happened after you were refused permission to communicate with the American representatives?”

“We were all in the dining-room of the Hotel Poste under guard. At the Burgomaster’s dictation I was writing out a proclamation warning the inhabitants of Yslemont not to commit any act of violence against the German soldiery and explaining that we were held as hostages for their good behaviour and that a shot fired at a German meant a dead wall and a squad of execution for us and the destruction of Yslemont for them–” He flushed, hesitated.

“Continue,” said the general.

“While I was still writing the shots were fired. We all went to the window and we saw Uhlans galloping across the fields after some peasants who were running into the woods. Afterward two stretchers came by with Germans lying in them. After that an officer came and cursed us and the soldiers tied our hands behind our backs. We sat there in the dining-room until the Uhlans came riding into the street with their prisoners tied by ropes to their saddles. Then a major of infantry came into the dining-room and read our sentence to us. Then they marched us out into the fog.”

The general crossed his spurred boots under the desk and lay back in his chair, looking at Guild all the while.

“So you are American, Mr. Guild?”

“Yes, General.”

“In business in New York?”

“Yes.”

“What business?”

“Real estate.”

“Where?”

“Union Square, West.”

“What is the name of the firm in which you are associated?”

“Guild and Darrel.”

“Is that your partner’s name?”

“Yes. Henry Darrel.”

“Why are you here in Belgium?”

“I was making a foot tour in the Ardennes.”

“Your business vacation?”

“Yes. I was to meet my partner in Luxembourg and return to New York with him.”

“You and your partner are both absent from New York at the same time?”

“Yes.”

“How is that?”

“Real estate in New York is quiet. There is practically no business now.”

The general nodded. “Yes,” he said, “much of what you tell me has been corroborated. In the Seegard Regiment of Infantry Number 569 you were recognized by several non-commissioned officers and men while you stood with the hostages awaiting–ah–justice,” he added drily.

“Recognized?” repeated Guild.

“The soldiers who recognized you had served in New York hotels as clerks or waiters, I believe. The captain of that company, in consequence, very properly reported the matter to Colonel von Eschbach, who telephoned to me. And I am here to consider the matter.”

Then, folding his arms and looking hard at Guild out of narrowing eyes that began to slant again:

“The hostages of Yslemont have justly forfeited their lives. Two of my officers have been murdered there in the streets. The law is plain. Is there any reason why these hostages should not pay the proper penalty?”

“The Burgomaster was in the act of dictating–”

“He should have dictated faster!”

“These gentlemen did not fire the shots–”

“But those over whom they exercised authority did!”

Guild fell silent and his features paled a little. The general watched him in silence for a moment and an inquiring expression came into his narrow eyes.

“Well?” he said at length.

Guild lifted his eyes.

“Well, sir,” repeated the general. “I have said that there is no reason why the hostages taken at Yslemont should not be turned over to the squad of execution outside there in the hallway.”

“I heard you say it.”

The general looked at him curiously. “You have nothing to say?”

“No.”

“Not for yourself?”

“No.”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Guild, what was your ultimate object in passing through Yslemont?”

“I have already told you that I had intended to make a foot tour through the Three Ardennes.”

“Hadintended?”

“Yes.”

“Was that still your intention when you were made prisoner?”

After a moment’s hesitation: “No,” said Guild in a low voice.

“You altered your plan?”

“Yes.”

“You decided to employ your vacation otherwise?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I decided to enlist,” said Guild. He was very white, now.

“Enlist?”

“Yes.”

“In the British army?”

“The Belgian.”

“Oh! So now you do not remind me that, as an American, you claim exemption from the execution of the sentence?”

“I have said enough,” replied Guild. A slight colour showed over his cheek-bones.

“If I shoot the Burgomaster and the notary and the others in there, ought I to let you go–on your own representations?”

“I have said enough,” repeated Guild.

“Oh! So you refuse to plead any particular exemption on account of your nationality?”

No answer.

“And you, by your silence, permit yourself to be implicated in the responsibility of your fellow-hostages?”

No reply.

“Why?–Mr. Guild. Is it, perhaps, after all because you are not an American in the strictest sense of that often misused term?”

There was no response.

“You were born in America?”

“Yes.”

“Your father, perhaps, was born there?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! And hisfather?”

“No.”

“Oh! You are, I see, quite candid, Mr. Guild.”

“Yes, when necessary.”

“I see. Very well, then. Where do you get your Christian name, Kervyn? Is it an American name?”

“No.”

“The name, Guild–is that an American name?”

“Yes.”

“But–isit yourname?”

“Yes.”

“Was it, by chance, ever spelled a little differently–in times gone by, Mr. Guild?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! And how, in times gone by, was it spelled by your–grandfather?”

Guild looked him calmly in the eyes. “It was spelled Gueldres,” he said.

“I see, I see. That isinteresting. Gueldres, Kervyn Gueldres. Why, it sounds almost Belgian. Let me see–if I remember–there was such a family inscribed in the Book of Gold. There was even a Kervyn of Gueldres–a count, was he not?–Comte d’Yvoir–Count of Yvoir, Hastière, and Lesse. Was he not–this Kervyn of Gueldres, many, many years ago?”

“I congratulate General von Reiter on his memory for such unimportant history as that of Belgium,” said Guild, reddening.

“Oh, we Germans are studious in our youth–and thorough. Nothing is too unimportant to ignore and”–he smiled grimly–”nothing is too vast for us to undertake–and accomplish.”

He lifted his hand to his mustache again. “Mr. Guild,” he said, “at the elections in America you–ah–vote of course?”

“No.”

“What?”

Guild remained silent.

The general, stroking his mustache, said pleasantly: “The Belgian nobility always interested me; it is so exclusive and there are so few families of the classe noble. Except for those ten families who are independent of Court favour–like the Croys and De Lignes–there seem to be only about thirty families who possess the privileges of the Golden Book. Is this not so?”

“General von Reiter appears to know.”

The general seemed gratified at this corroboration of his own memory. “And,” he went on amiably, “this Belgian nobility is a real nobility. Once of it, always a part of it. And, too, its code is so rigid, so inexorably precise that it seems almost Prussian. For example, the code of the Belgian aristocracy permits none of its members to go into any commercial business, any trade–even forbids an entry into high finance. Only the Church and Army are open to it; and in the Army only the two Guides regiments and the Lancers are permitted to young men of the aristocracy.” He gazed almost mildly at the young man: “You are in business, you tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! Then of course you have never been a soldier.”

Guild was silent.

“Haveyou ever served in the army?”

“Yes.”

“Really! In what American regiment have you served?”

“In a militia regiment of cavalry–the 1st New York.”

“How interesting. And–you have never served in the regular army?”

“N–” but Guild hesitated.

General von Reiter watched him intently.

“Did you reply in the negative, Mr. Guild?”

“No, I did not reply at all.”

“Oh! Then would you be good enough to reply?”

“If–you insist.”

“I insist.”

“Very well,” said Guild, reddening, “then I have served in the–Belgian army.”

The general nodded without surprise: “In what regiment?”

“In the first regiment of Guides.”

“You came from America to do this?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When I became of military age.”

“Noblesse oblige?”

No reply.

“In other words, you are an American with all the Belgian aristocracy’s sense of responsibility to race and tradition. You are a good American, but there are inherited instincts which sent you back to serve two years with the colours–to serve a country which for ten hundred years your race has defended. And–the Guides alone was open to a Gueldres–where, in America, a Guild was free to choose. Monsieur, you are Belgian; and, as a Belgian, you were properly seized as a hostage and properly sentenced to pay the penalty for the murderous misbehaviour of your own people! I approve the sentence. Have you anything to say?”

“No.”

The general regarded him closely, then rose, came around the end of the desk, walked across the room and halted directly in front of Guild.

“So you see there is no chance for you,” he said, staring hard at him.

Guild managed to control his voice and speak clearly: “I see,” he said.

“Suppose,” said von Reiter, still staring at him, “I ask you to do me a favour?”

Guild’s face was marble, but he managed to force a smile: “You ask a favour of a prisoner a few moments before his execution?”

“I do. Will you grant it?”

“What is it?”

“Nothing dishonourable to a good–American.”

“That is not enough; and you know it.”

“Very well. I shall tell you then. I have a daughter in England. I can’t get her away from England–I can’t get word to her. I–” suddenly his dry, blond features twitched, but instantly the man had them under iron control again, and he cleared his throat: “She is in England near London. We are at war with England. I want my daughter out of the country. I can’t get her out. Go and get her for me!”

For a full minute the two men gazed at each other in silence. Then von Reiter said: “I know enough of you. If you say you’ll do it I’ll free the Burgomaster and the others in there–” he jerked his bony thumb toward the hallway outside–”If you say you’ll do it–if you say you’ll go to England, now, and find my daughter, and bring her here to me–or conduct her to whatever point I designate, I’ll not have those men shot; I’ll not burn the rest of Yslemont; I’ll see that you are conducted to the Dutch frontier unmolested after you carry out your engagements with me. Will you do it?”

Guild met his intent gaze with a gaze as searching:

“Her name is Karen.”

“Where am I to find her?”

“Thirty miles out of London at Westheath. She is known there as Karen Girard.”

“What!” said Guild sharply.

“She chose to be so known in her profession.”

“Her profession?”

“She has been on the stage–against my wishes. She is preparing herself further–contrary to my wishes. Until she disassociates herself from that profession she will not use the name of von Reiter.”

Guild nodded slowly: “Thatis why your daughter is known as Karen Girard?”

“That is why. She is a young girl–nineteen. She went to school in her mother’s country, Denmark. She imbibed notions there–and, later, in England among art students and others. It is the well-born who succumb most easily to nonsense once the discipline is relaxed. She has had her way in spite of my authority. Now it is time for such insubordination to cease. I wish to have my daughter back. I cannot get her. You are–American–to all intents and purposes, and you would be under no suspicion in England. Your appearance, your speech, your manners all are above suspicion. You cando this. I have made up my mind concerning you, and I trust you. Will you go to England, find my daughter and bring her back to me here; or, if I am ordered elsewhere, will you escort her to my country place in Silesia which is called Rehthal?”

“Suppose I do not find her? Suppose I fail?”

“You will return here and report to me.”

“If I fail and I return here and report my failure, does that mean the execution of the gentlemen in the drawing-room yonder?”

“It does.”

“And the destruction of Yslemont?”

“Absolutely.”

“And–” the young man smiled–”incidentally it means my own execution, does it not?”

“It does.”

They gazed at each other with intense interest.

“Under such circumstances do you think I’ll come back if I am not successful?” inquired the younger man.

“I am satisfied that you will return if you say you will.”

“Return to face my own execution?” repeated Guild, curiously. “You believe that of me?–of a man about whom you know nothing–a man who”–his animated features suddenly darkened and he caught his breath a moment, then–”a man who considers your nation a barbarous one, your rulers barbarians, your war inexcusable, your invasion of this land the vilest example of treachery and dishonour that the world has ever witnessed–you still believe that such a man might consider himself bound to return here if unsuccessful and face one of your murdering platoons? Doyou?” he repeated, the slightest intonation of violence beginning to ring in the undertones of his voice.

Von Reiter’s dry, blond features had become greyer and more set. His light blue eyes never left the other; behind their pale, steady scrutiny he seemed to be considering every word.

He drew in his breath, slowly; his very thin lips receded for a moment, then the fixed tranquillity returned.

“We Germans,” he said drily, “care nothing for what Europe may think of us or say about us. Perhaps we are vandals, Goths, Huns–whatever you call them. Perhaps we are barbarians. I think we are! For we mean to scour the old world clean of its rottenness–cauterize it, cut out the old sores of a worn-out civilization, scrape its surface clean of the parasite nations.... And, if firebe necessary to burn out the last traces–” His light blue eyes glimmered a very reflection of the word–”then let fire pass. It has passed, before–God’s Angel of the Flaming Sword has returned again to lead us! What is a cathedral or two–or pictures or foolish statues–or a million lives? Yes, if you choose, we are barbarians. And we intend to plow under the accumulated decay of the whole world, and burn up its rubbish and found our new world on virgin earth. Yes, we arebarbarians. And our Emperor is a barbarian. And God, who creates with one hand and destroys with the other–God–autocrat of material creation, inexorable Over-Lord of ultimate material annihilation, is the greatest barbarian of all! Under His orders we are moving. In His name we annihilate! Amen!”

A dead silence ensued. And after it had lasted a little while the tall Prussian lifted his hand absently to his mustache and touched it caressingly.

“I am satisfied, whatever your opinion may be of me or of my people, that you will return if you say you will, successful or otherwise. I promise you immunity if you return with my daughter; I promise you a wall and a file of men if you return unsuccessful. But, in either event, I am satisfied that you will return. Will you go?”

“Yes,” said Guild, thoughtfully. They stood for a moment longer, the young man gazing absently out of the window toward the menacing smoke pall which was increasing above Yslemont.

“You promise not to burn the remainder of the village?” he asked, turning to look at von Reiter.

“I promise not to burn it if you keep your promise.”

“I’ll try... And the Burgomaster, notary, magistrate, and the others are to be released?”

“If you do what I ask.”

“Very well. It’s worth trying for. Give me my credentials.”

“You need no written ones. Letters are unsafe. You will go to my daughter, who has leased a small cottage at Westheath. You will say to her that you come from me; that the question which she was to decide on the first of November must be decided sooner, and that when she arrives at Rehthal in Silesia she is to telegraph me through the General Staff of her arrival. If I can obtain leave to go to Silesia I shall do so. If not, I shall telegraph my instructions to her.”

“Will that be sufficient for your daughter to place her confidence in a man absolutely strange to her and accompany that man on a journey of several days?” asked Guild, slightly astonished.

“Not quite sufficient,” said von Reiter, his dry, blond visage slightly relaxing.

He drew a rather plain ring from his bony finger: “See if you can wear that,” he said. “Does it fit you?”

Guild tried it on. “Well enough.”

“Is there any danger of its slipping off?”

Guild tried it on another finger, which it fitted snugly.

“It looks like any other plain gold ring,” he remarked.

“Her name is engraved inside.”

“Karen?”

“Karen.”

There came a short pause. Then: “Do you know London?” asked von Reiter.

“Passably.”

“Oh! You are likely to require a touring car. You’ll find it difficult to get. May I recommend the Edmeston Agency? It’s about the only agency, now, where any gasoline at all is obtainable. The Edmeston Agency. I use it when I am in London. Ask for Mr. Louis Grätz.”

After a moment he added, “My chauffeur brought your luggage, rücksack, stick, and so forth, from Yslemont. You will go to the enemies’ lines south of Ostend in my car. One of my aides-de-camp will accompany you and show you a letter of instructions before delivering you to the enemies’ flag of truce. You will read the letter, learn it by heart, and return it to my aide, Captain von Klipper.

“There is a bedroom above. Go up there. Food will be sent you. Get what sleep you can, because you are to leave at sunrise. Is this arrangement agreeable to you–Monsieur le Comte de Gueldres?”

“Perfectly, General Baron von Reiter.”

“Also. Then I have the honour to wish you good night and a pleasant sleep.”

“I thank you and I have the honour to wish you the same,” said Guild, bowing pleasantly.

General von Reiter stood aside and saluted with stiff courtesy as the young man passed out.

A few moments later a regimental band somewhere along the Yslemont highway began to play “Polen Blut.”

If blood were the theme, they ought to have played it well enough.

CHAPTER III

TIPPERARY

At noon on the following day Kervyn Guild wrote to his friend Darrel:

Dear Harry:

Instead of joining you on the Black Erenz for the late August trout fishing I am obliged to go elsewhere.

I have had a most unpleasant experience, and it is not ended, and I do not yet know what the outcome is to be.

From the fact that I have not dated this letter it will be evident to you that I am not permitted to do so. Also you will understand that I have been caught somewhere in the war zone and that is why the name of the place from which I am writing you is omitted–by request.

We have halted for luncheon at a wayside inn–the gentleman who is kind enough to accompany me, and I–and I have obtained this benevolent gentleman’s authorization to write you whatever I please as long as I do NOT

1st. Tell you where I am going.

2d. Tell you where I am.

3d. Tell you anything else that does not suit him.

And he isn’t a censor at that; he is just a very efficient, polite, and rather good-looking German officer serving as aide on the staff of a certain German major-general.

Day before yesterday, after luncheon, I was playing a quiet game of chess with the Burgomaster of a certain Belgian village, and was taking a last look before setting out for Luxembourg on foot, rücksack, stick, and all, when–well, circumstances over which I had no control interrupted the game of chess. It was white to go and mate in three moves. The Burgomaster was playing black. I had him, Harry. Too bad, because he was the best player in–well in that neighbourhood. I opened with a Lopez and he replied most irregularly. It certainly was interesting. I am sorry that I couldn’t mate him and analyze the game with him. However, thank Heaven, I did announce mate in three moves, and the old gentleman was still defiantly studying the situation. I admit he refused to resign.

I left that village toward evening in a large, grey automobile. I and the gentleman who still accompanies me slept fairly well that night, considering the fact that a town was on fire all around us.

In the morning we made slow progress in our automobile. Roads and fields were greenish grey with troops–a vast horde of them possessed the valleys; they enveloped the hills like fog-banks turning the whole world grey–infantry, artillery, cuirassiers, Uhlans, hussars–all mist colour from helmet to heel–and so are their waggons and guns and caissons and traction-engines and motor-cycles and armoured cars and aeroplanes.

The latter are magnificent in an artistic sense–perfect replicas of giant pigeon-hawks, circling, planing, sheering the air or sailing high, majestic as a very lammergeier, fierce, relentless, terrible.

My efficient companion who is reading this letter over my shoulder as I write it, and who has condescended to permit a ghost of a smile to mitigate, now and then, the youthful seriousness of his countenance, is not likely to object when I say to you that what I have seen of the German army on the march is astoundingly impressive.

(He smiles again very boyishly and says he doesn’t object.)

Order, precision, a knowledge of the country absolutely unhesitating marks its progress. There is much singing in the infantry ranks. The men march well, their physique is fine, the cavalry are superbly mounted, the guns–(He shakes his head, so never mind the guns.)

Their regimental bands are wonderful. It is a sheer delight to listen to them. They play everything from “Polen Blut” and “Sari,” to Sousa, “Tannhäuser,” and “A Hot Time,” but I haven’t yet heard “Tipperary.” (He seems puzzled at this, but does not object.) I expect shortly to hear a band playing it. (I have to explain to my efficient companion that “Tipperary” is a tune which ought to take Berlin and Vienna by stormwhen they hear it. It takes Berlin and Vienna to really appreciate good music. He agrees with me.)

Yesterday we passed a convoy of prisoners, some were kilted. I was not permitted to speak to them–but, Oh, those wistful eyes of Scottish blue! I guess they understood, for they got all the tobacco I had left. (My companion is doubtful about this, but finally shrugs his shoulders.)

There is an awesome noise going on beyond us in–well in a certain direction. I think that all the artillery ever made is producing it. There’s practically no smoke visible against the clear blue August sky–nothing to see at all except the feathery cotton fleece of shrapnel appearing, expanding, vanishing over a hill on the horizon, and two aeroplanes circling high like a pair of mated hawks.

And all the while this earth-rocking diapason continues more terrible, more majestic than any real thunder I ever heard.

We have had luncheon and are going on. He drank five quarts of Belgian beer! I am permitted a few minutes more and he orders the sixth quart. This is what I have to say:

In case anything should go wrong with me give the enclosed note to my mother. Please see to it that everything I have goes to her. My will is in my box in our safe at the office. It is all quite clear. There should be no trouble.

I expressed my trunk to your care in Luxembourg. You wrote me that you had received it and placed it in storage to await my leisurely arrival. In case of accident to me send it to my mother.