CHAPTER I THE THIRTY-FIRST OF JULY
 "Let us have coffee on the terrace," Bloem suggested, and, as his companion nodded, lifted a finger to the waiter and gave the order.
 
Both were a little sad, for this was their last meal together. Though they had known each other less than a fortnight, they had become fast friends. They had been thrown together by chance at the Surgical congress at Vienna, where Bloem, finding the American's German lame and halting, had constituted himself a sort of interpreter, and Stewart had reciprocated by polishing away some of the roughnesses and Teutonic involutions of Bloem's formal English.
 
When the congress ended, they had journeyed back together in leisurely fashion through Germany, spending a day in medieval Nuremberg, another in odorous Würzburg, and a third in mountain-shadowed Heidelberg, where Bloem had sought out some of his old comrades and initiated his American friend into the mysteries of an evening session in the Hirschgasse. Then they had turned northward to Mayence, and so down the terraced Rhine to Cologne. Here they were to part, Bloem to return to his work at Elberfeld, Stewart for a week or two in Brussels and Paris, and then home to America.
 
Bloem's train was to leave in an hour, and it was the consciousness of this that kept them silent until their waiter came to tell them that their coffee was served. As they followed him through the hall, a tall man in the uniform of a captain of infantry entered from the street. His eyes brightened as he caught sight of Bloem.
 
"Ach, Hermann!" he cried.
 
Bloem, turning, stopped an instant for a burlesque salute, then threw himself into the other's arms. A moment later, he was dragging him forward to introduce him to Stewart.
 
"My cousin," he cried, "Ritter Bloem, a soldier as you see—a great fire-eater! Cousin, this is my friend, Dr. Bradford Stewart, whom I had the good fortune to meet at Vienna."
 
"I am pleased to know you, sir," said the captain, shaking hands and speaking excellent English.
 
"You must join us," Bloem interposed. "We are just going to have coffee on the terrace. Come," and he caught the other by the arm.
 
But the captain shook his head.
 
"No, I cannot come," he said; "really I cannot, much as I should like to do so. Dr. Stewart," he added, a little hesitatingly, "I trust you will not think me discourteous if I take my cousin aside for a moment."
 
"Certainly not," Stewart assured him.
 
"I will join you on the terrace," said Bloem, and Stewart, nodding good-by to the captain, followed the waiter, who had stood by during this exchange of greetings, and now led the way to a little table at one corner of the broad balcony looking out over the square.
 
"Shall I pour the coffee, sir?" he asked, as Stewart sat down.
 
"No; I will wait for my companion," and, as the waiter bowed and stepped back, Stewart leaned forward with a deep breath of admiration.
 
Below him lay the green level of the Domhof, its close-clipped trees outlined stiffly against the lights behind them. Beyond rose the choir of the great cathedral, with its fretted pinnacles, and flying buttresses, and towering roof. By day, he had found its exterior somewhat cold and bare and formal, lacking somehow the subtle spirit of true Gothic; but nothing could be more beautiful than it was now, shimmering in the moonlight, bathed in luminous shadow, lace-like and mysterious.
 
He was still absorbed in this fairy vision when Bloem rejoined him. Even in the half-light of the terrace, Stewart could see that he was deeply moved. His face, usually glowing with healthy color, was almost haggard; his eyes seemed dull and sunken.
 
"No bad news, I hope?" Stewart asked.
 
Without answering him, Bloem signaled the waiter to pour the coffee, and sat watching him in silence.
 
"That will do," he said in German; "we will ring if we have need of you." Then, as the waiter withdrew, he glanced nervously about the terrace. It was deserted save for a noisy group around a table at the farther end. "There is very bad news, my friend," he added, almost in a whisper. "There is going to be—war!"
 
Stewart stared for an instant, astonished at the gravity of his tone. Then he nodded comprehendingly.
 
"Yes," he said; "I had not thought of it; but I suppose a war between Austria and Servia will affect Germany more or less. Only I was hoping the Powers would interfere and stop it."
 
"It seems it cannot be stopped," said Bloem, gloomily. "Russia is mobilizing to assist Servia. Austria is Germany's ally, and so Germany must come to her aid. Unless Russia stops her mobilization, we shall declare war against her. Our army has already been called to the colors."
 
Stewart breathed a little deeper.
 
"But perhaps Russia will desist when she realizes her danger," he suggested. "She must know she is no match for Germany."
 
"She does know it," Bloem agreed; "but she also knows that she will not fight alone. It is not against Russia we are mobilizing—it is against France."
 
"Against France?" echoed the other. "But surely——"
 
"Do not speak so loud, I beg of you," Bloem cautioned. "What I am telling you is not yet generally known—perhaps the dreadful thing we fear will not happen, after all. But France is Russia's ally—she will be eager for war—for forty years she has been preparing for this moment."
 
"Yes," agreed Stewart, smiling, "I have heard of 'là revanche'; I have seen the mourning wreaths on the Strassburg monument. I confess," he added, "that I sympathize with France's dream of regaining her lost provinces. So do most Americans. We are a sentimental people."
 
"I, too, sympathize with that dream," said Bloem, quickly, "or at least I understand it. So do many Germans. We have come to realize that the seizure of Alsace and Lorraine, however justified by history, was in effect a terrible mistake. We should have been generous in our hour of triumph—that way lay a chance of friendship with a people whose pride remained unbroken by disaster. Instead, we chose to heap insults upon a conquered foe, and we have reaped a merited reward of detestation. Ironically enough, those provinces which cost us so much have been to us a source of weakness, not of strength. We have had to fortify them, to police them, to hold them in stern repression. Even yet, they must be treated as conquered ground. You do not know—you cannot realize—what that means!" He stared out gloomily into the night. "I have served there," he added, hoarsely.
 
There was something in his tone which sent a shiver across Stewart's scalp, as though he had found himself suddenly at the brink of a horrible abyss into which he dared not turn his eyes. He fancied he could see in his companion's somber face the stirring of ghastly memories, of tragic experience——
 
"But since France has not yet declared war," he said at last, "surely you will wait——"
 
"Ah, my friend," Bloem broke in, "we cannot afford to wait. We must strike quickly and with all our strength. There is no secret as to Germany's plan—France must be crushed under a mighty blow before she can defend herself; after that it will be Russia's turn."
 
"And after that?"
 
"After that? After that, we shall seize more provinces and exact more huge indemnities—and add just so much to our legacy of fear and hatred! We are bound to a wheel from which we cannot escape."
 
Stewart looked dazedly out over the lighted square.
 
"I can't understand it," he said, at last. "I don't understand how such things can be. They aren't possible. They're too terrible to be true. This is a civilized world—such things can never happen—humanity won't endure it!"
 
Bloem passed a trembling hand before his eyes, as a man awaking from a horrid dream.
 
"Let us hope so, at least," he said. "But I am afraid; I shake with fear! Europe is topheavy under the burden of her awful armaments; now, or at some future time, she must come tumbling down; she must—she must—" he paused, searching for a word—"she must crumble. Perhaps that time has come."
 
"I don't believe it," Stewart protested, stoutly. "Some day she will realize the insane folly of this armament, and it will cease."
 
"I wish I could believe so," said Bloem, sadly; "but you do not know, my friend, how we here in Germany, for example, are weighed down by militarism. You do not know the arrogance, the ignorance, the narrow-mindedness of the military caste. They do nothing for Germany—they add nothing to her art, her science, or her literature—they add nothing to her wealth—they destroy rather than build up—and yet it is they who rule Germany. We are a pacific people, we love our homes and a quiet life; we are not a military people, and yet every man in Germany must march to war when the word is given. We ourselves have no voice in the matter. We have only to obey."
 
"Obey whom?" asked Stewart.
 
"The Emperor," answered Bloem, bitterly. "With all our progress, my friend, with all our development in science and industry, with all our literature and art, with all our philosophy, we still live in a medieval State, ruled by a king who believes himself divinely appointed, who can do no wrong, and who, in time of war at least, has absolute power over us. And the final decision as to war or peace is wholly in his hands. Understand I do not complain of the Emperor; he has done great things for Germany; he has often cast his influence for peace. But he is surrounded by aristocrats intent only on maintaining their privileges, who are terrified by the growth of democratic ideas; who believe that the only way to checkmate democracy is by a great war. It is they who preach the doctrine of blood and iron; who hold that Cæsar is sacrosanct. The Emperor struggles against them; but some day they will prove too strong for him. Besides, he himself believes in blood and iron; he hates democracy as bitterly as anyone, for it denies the divine right of kings!" He stopped suddenly, his finger to his ear. "Listen!" he said.
 
Down the street, from the direction of the river, came a low, continuous murmur, as of the wind among the leaves of a forest; then, as it grew clearer, it resolved itself into the tramp, tramp of iron-shod feet. Bloem leaned far forward staring into the darkness; and suddenly, at the corner, three mounted officers appeared; then a line of soldiers wheeled into view; then another and another and another, moving as one man. The head of the column crossed the square, passed behind the church and disappeared, but still the tide poured on with slow and regular undulation, dim, mysterious, and threatening. At last the rear of the column came into view, passed, disappeared; the clatter of iron on stone softened to a shuffle, to a murmur, died away.
 
With a long breath, Bloem sat erect and passed his handkerchief across his shining forehead.
 
"There is one battalion," he said; "one unit composed of a thousand lesser units—each unit a man with a soul like yours and mine; with hopes and ambitions; with women to love him; and now marching to death, perhaps, in the ranks yonder without in the least knowing why. There are four million such units in the army the Emperor can call into the field. I am one of them—I shall march like the rest!"
 
"You!"
 
"Yes—I am a private in the Elberfeld battalion." He spread out his delicate, sensitive, surgeon's hands and looked at them. "I was at one time a sergeant," he added, "but my discipline did not satisfy my lieutenant and I was reduced to the ranks."
 
Stewart also stared at those beautiful hands, so expressive, so expert. How vividly they typified the waste of war!
 
"But it's absurd," he protested, "that a man like you—highly-trained, highly-educated, a specialist—should be made to shoulder a rifle. In the ranks, you are worth no more than the most ignorant peasant."
 
"Not so much," corrected Bloem. "Our ideal soldier is one whose obedience is instant and unquestioning."
 
"But why are you not placed where you would be most efficient—in the hospital corps, perhaps?"
 
"There are enough old and middle-aged surgeons for that duty. Young men must fight! Besides, I am suspected of having too many ideas!"
 
He sat for a moment longer staring down at his hands—staring too, perhaps, at his career so ruthlessly shattered—then he shook himself together and glanced across at his companion with a wry little smile.
 
"You will think me a great croaker!" he said. "It was the first shock—the thought of everything going to pieces. In a day or two, I shall be marching as light-heartedly as all the others—knowing only that I am fighting the enemies of my country—and wishing to know no more!"
 
But Stewart did not answer the smile. Confused thoughts were flying through his head—thoughts which he struggled to compose into some order or sequence.
 
Bloem looked at him for a moment, and his smile grew more ironic.
 
"I can guess what is in your mind," he said. "You are wondering why we march at all—why we offer ourselves as cannon-fodder, if we do not wish to do so. You are thinking of defiances, of revolutions. But there will never be a revolution in Germany—not in this generation."
 
"Yes, I was thinking something like that," Stewart agreed. "Why will there be no revolution?"
 
"Because we are too thoroughly drilled in the habit of obedience. That habit is grooved deep into our brains. Were any of us so rash as to start a revolution, the government could stop it with a single word."
 
"A single word?"
 
"Yes—'verboten'!" retorted Bloem, with a short laugh. Then he pushed back his chair and rose abruptly. "I must say good-by. My orders are awaiting me at Elberfeld."
 
Stewart rose too, his face still mazed with incredulity.
 
"You really mean——"
 
"I mean," Bloem broke in, "that to-morrow I go to my depot, hang about my neck the metal tag stamped with my number, put on my uniform and shoulder my rifle. I cease to be an individual—I become a soldier. Good-by, my friend," he added, his voice softening. "Think of me sometimes, in that far-off, sublime America of yours. One thing more—do not linger in Germany—things will be very different here under martial law. Get home as quickly as you can; and, in the midst of your peace and happiness, pity us poor blind worms who are forced to slay each other!"
 
"But I will go with you to the station," Stewart protested.
 
"No, no," said Bloem; "you must not do that. I am to meet my cousin. Good-by. Lebe wohl!"
 
"Good-by—and good luck!" and Stewart wrung the hand thrust into his. "You have been most kind to me."
 
Bloem answered only with a little shake of the head; then turned resolutely and hastened from the terrace.
 
Stewart sank back into his seat more moved than he would have believed possible by this parting from a man whom, a fortnight before, he had not known at all. Poor Bloem! To what fate was he being hurried! A cultured man graded down to the level of the hind; a gentleman set to the task of slaughter; a democrat driven to fight in defense of the divine right of kings! But could such a fight succeed? Was any power strong enough to drag back the hands of time——
 
And then Stewart started violently, for someone had touched him on the shoulder. He looked up to find standing over him a tall man in dark blue uniform and wearing a spiked helmet.
 
"Your pardon, sir," said the man in careful English; "I am an agent of the police. I must ask you certain questions."
 
"Very well," agreed Stewart with a smile. "Go ahead—I have nothing to conceal. But won't you sit down?"
 
"I thank you," and the policeman sat down heavily. "You are, I believe, an American."
 
"Yes."
 
"Have you a passport?"
 
"Yes—I was foolish enough to get one before I left home. All my friends laughed at me and told me I was wasting a dollar!"
 
"I should like to see it."
 
Stewart put his hand into an inner pocket, drew out the crackling parchment and passed it over. The other took it, unfolded it, glanced at the red seal and at the date, then read the very vague description of its owner, and finally drew out a notebook.
 
"Pease sign your name here," he said, and indicated a blank page.
 
Stewart wrote his name, and the officer compared it with the signature at the bottom of the passport. Then he nodded, folded it up, and handed it back across the table.
 
"It is quite regular," he said. "For what time have you been in Germany?"
 
"About two weeks. I attended the surgical congress at Vienna."
 
"You are a surgeon by profession?"
 
"Yes."
 
"You are now on your way home?"
 
"Yes."
 
"When will you leave Germany?"
 
"I am going from here to Aix-la-Chapelle in the morning, and expect to leave there for Brussels to-morrow afternoon or Sunday morning at the latest."
 
The officer noted these details in his book.
 
"At what hotel will you stay in Aachen?" he asked.
 
"I don't know. Is there a good one near the station?"
 
"The Kölner Hof is near the station. It is not large, but it is very good. It is starred by Baedeker."
 
"Then I will go there," said Stewart.
 
"Very good," and the officer wrote, "Kölner Hof, Aachen," after Stewart's name, closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. "You understand, sir, that it is our duty to keep watch over all strangers, as much for their own protection as for any other reason."
 
"Yes," assented Stewart, "I understand. I have heard that there is some danger of war."
 
"Of that I know nothing," said the other coldly, and rose quickly to his feet. "I bid you good-night, sir."
 
"Good-night," responded Stewart, and watched the upright figure until it disappeared.
 
Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he gazed out at the great cathedral, nebulous and dream-like in the darkness, and tried to picture to himself what such a war would mean as Bloem had spoken of. With men by the million dragged into the vast armies, who would harvest Europe's grain, who would work in her factories, who would conduct her business? Above all, who would feed the women and children?
 
And where would the money come from—the millions needed daily to keep such armies in the field? Where could it come from, save from the sweat of inoffensive people, who must be starved and robbed and ground into the earth until the last penny was wrung from them? Along the line of battle, thousands would meet swift death, and thousands more would struggle back to life through the torments of hell, to find themselves maimed and useless. But how trivial their sufferings beside the slow, hopeless, year-long martyrdom of the countless thousands who would never see a battle, who would know little of the war—who would know only that never thereafter was there food enough, warmth enough——
 
Stewart started from his reverie to find the waiter putting out the lights. Shivering as with a sudden chill, he hastily sought his room.
CHAPTER II THE FIRST RUMBLINGS
 As Stewart ate his breakfast next morning, he smiled at his absurd fears of the night before. In the clear light of day, Bloem's talk of war seemed mere foolishness. War! Nonsense! Europe would never be guilty of such folly—a deliberate plunge to ruin.
 
Besides, there were no evidences of war; the life of the city was moving in its accustomed round, so far as Stewart could see; and there was vast reassurance in the quiet and orderly service of the breakfast-room. No doubt the Powers had bethought themselves, had interfered, had stopped the war between Austria and Servia, had ceased mobilization—in a word, had saved Europe from an explosion which would have shaken her from end to end.
 
But when Stewart asked for his bill, the proprietor, instead of intrusting it as usual to the headwaiter, presented it in person.
 
"If Herr Stewart would pay in gold, it would be a great favor," he said.
 
Like all Americans, Stewart, unaccustomed to gold and finding its weight burdensome, carried banknotes whenever it was possible to do so. Emptying his pockets now, he found, besides a miscellaneous lot of silver and nickel and copper, a single small gold coin, value ten marks.
 
"But I have plenty of paper," he said, and, producing his pocket-book, spread five notes for a hundred marks each before him on the table. "What's the matter with it?"
 
"There is nothing at all the matter with it, sir," the little fat German hastened to assure him; "only, just at present, there is a preference for gold. I would advise that you get gold for these notes, if possible."
 
"I have a Cook's letter of credit," said Stewart. "They would give me gold. Where is Cook's office here?"
 
"It is but a step up the street, sir," answered the other eagerly. "Come, I will show you," and, hastening to the door, he pointed out the office at the end of a row of buildings jutting out toward the cathedral.
 
Stewart, the banknotes in his hand, hastened thither, and found quite a crowd of people drawing money on traveler's checks and letters of credit. He noticed that they were all being paid in gold. They, too, it seemed, had heard rumors of war, had been advised to get gold; but most of them treated the rumors as a joke and were heeding the advice only because they needed gold to pay their bills.
 
Even if there was war, they told each other, it could not affect them. At most, it would only add a spice of excitement and adventure to the remainder of their European tour; what they most feared was that they would not be permitted to see any of the fighting! A few of the more timid shamefacedly confessed that they were getting ready to turn homeward, but by far the greater number proclaimed the fact that they had made up their minds not to alter their plans in any detail. So much Stewart gathered as he stood in line waiting his turn; then he was in front of the cashier's window.
 
The cashier looked rather dubious when Stewart laid the banknotes down and asked for gold.
 
"I am carrying one of your letters of credit," Stewart explained, and produced it. "I got these notes on it at Heidelberg just the other day. Now it seems they're no good."
 
"They are perfectly good," the cashier assured him; "but some of the tradespeople, who are always suspicious and ready to take alarm, are demanding gold. How long will you be in Germany?"
 
"I go to Belgium to-night or to-morrow."
 
"Then you can use French gold," said the cashier, with visible relief. "Will one hundred marks in German gold carry you through? Yes? I think I can arrange it on that basis;" and when Stewart assented, counted out five twenty-mark pieces and twenty-four twenty-franc pieces. "I think you are wise to leave Germany as soon as possible," he added, in a low tone, as Stewart gathered up this money and bestowed it about his person. "We do not wish to alarm anyone, and we are not offering advice, but if war comes, Germany will not be a pleasant place for strangers."
 
"Is it really coming?" Stewart asked. "Is there any news?"
 
"There is nothing definite—just a feeling in the air—but I believe that it is coming," and he turned to the next in line.
 
Stewart hastened back to the hotel, where his landlord received with reiterated thanks the thirty marks needed to settle the bill. When that transaction was ended, he glanced nervously about the empty office, and then leaned close.
 
"You leave this morning, do you not, sir?" he asked, in a tone cautiously lowered.
 
"Yes; I am going to Aix-la-Chapelle."
 
"Take my advice, sir," said the landlord earnestly, "and do not stop there. Go straight on to Brussels."
 
"But why?" asked Stewart. "Everybody is advising me to get out of Germany. What danger can there be?"
 
"No danger, perhaps, but very great annoyance. It is rumored that the Emperor has already signed the proclamation declaring Germany in a state of war. It may be posted at any moment."
 
"Suppose it is—what then? What difference can that make to me—or to any American?"
 
"I see you do not know what those words mean," said the little landlord, leaning still closer and speaking with twitching lips. "When Germany is in a state of war, all civil authority ceases; the military authority is everywhere supreme. The state takes charge of all railroads, and no private persons will be permitted on them until the troops have been mobilized, which will take at least a week; even after that, the trains will run only when the military authorities think proper, and never past the frontier. The telegraphs are taken and will send no private messages; no person may enter or leave the country until his identity is clearly established; every stranger in the country will be placed under arrest, if there is any reason to suspect him. All motor vehicles are seized, all horses, all stores of food. Business stops, because almost all the men must go to the army. I must close my hotel because there will be no men left to work for me. Even if the men were left, there would be no custom when travel ceases. Every shop will be closed which cannot be managed by women; every factory will shut, unless its product is needed by the army. Your letter of credit will be worthless, because there will be no way in which our bankers can get gold from America. No—at that time, Germany will be no place for strangers."
 
Stewart listened incredulously, for all this sounded like the wildest extravagance. He could not believe that business and industry would fall to pieces like that—it was too firmly founded, too strongly built.
 
"What I have said is true, sir, believe me," said the little man, earnestly, seeing his skeptical countenance. "One thing more—have you a passport?"
 
"Yes," said Stewart, and tapped his pocket.
 
"That is good. That will save you trouble at the frontier. Ah, here is your baggage. Good-by, sir, and a safe voyage to your most fortunate country."
 
A brawny porter shouldered the two suit-cases which held Stewart's belongings, and the latter followed him along the hall to the door. As he stepped out upon the terrace, he saw drawn up there about twenty men—some with the black coats of waiters, some with the white caps of cooks, some with the green aprons of porters—while a bearded man in a spiked helmet was checking off their names in a little book. At the sound of Stewart's footsteps, he turned and cast upon him the cold, impersonal glance of German officialdom. Then he looked at the porter.
 
"You will return as quickly as possible," he said gruffly in German to the latter, and returned to his checking.
 
As they crossed the Domhof and skirted the rear of the cathedral, Stewart noticed that many of the shops were locked and shuttered, and that the street seemed strangely deserted. Only as they neared the station did the crowd increase. It was evident that many tourists, warned, perhaps, as Stewart had been, had made up their minds to get out of Germany; but the train drawn up beside the platform was a long one, and there was room for everybody. It was a good-humored crowd, rather inclined to laugh at its own fears and to protest that this journey was entirely in accordance with a pre-arranged schedule; but it grew quieter and quieter as moment after moment passed and the train did not start.
 
That a German train should not start precisely on time was certainly unusual; that it should wait for twenty minutes beyond that time was staggering. But the station-master, pacing solemnly up and down the platform, paid no heed to the inquiries addressed to him, and the guards answered only by a shake of the head which might mean anything. Then, quite suddenly, above the noises of the station, menacing and insistent came the low, ceaseless shuffle of approaching feet.
 
A moment later the head of an infantry column appeared at the station entrance. It halted there, and an officer, in a long, gray cape that fell to his ankles, strode toward the station-master, who hastened to meet him. There was a moment's conference, and then the station-master, saluting for the tenth time, turned to the expectant guards.
 
"Clear the train!" he shouted in stentorian German, and the guards sprang eagerly to obey.
 
The scene which followed is quite indescribable. All the Germans in the train hastened to get off, as did everybody else who understood what was demanded and knew anything of the methods of militarism. But many did not understand; a few who did made the mistake of standing upon what they conceived to be their rights and refusing to be separated from their luggage—and all alike, men, women, and children, were yanked from their seats and deposited upon the platform. Some were deposited upon their feet—but not many. Women screamed as rough and seemingly hostile hands were laid upon them; men, red and inarticulate with anger, attempted ineffectually to resist. In a moment one and all found themselves shut off by a line of police which had suddenly appeared from nowhere and drawn up before the train.
 
Then a whistle sounded and the soldiers began to file into the carriages in the most systematic manner. Twenty-four men entered each compartment—ten sitting down and fourteen standing up or sitting upon the others' laps. Each coach, therefore, held one hundred and forty-four; and the battalion of seven hundred and twenty men exactly filled five coaches—just as the General Staff had long ago figured that it should.
 
Stewart, after watching this marvel of organization for a moment, realized that, if any carriages were empty, it would be the ones at the end of the train, and quietly made his way thither. At last, in the rear coach, he came to a compartment in which sat one man, evidently a German, with a melancholy bearded face. Before the door stood a guard watching the battalion entrain.
 
"May one get aboard?" Stewart inquired, in his best German.
 
The guard held up his hand for an instant; then the gold-braided station-master shouted a sentence which Stewart could not distinguish; but the guard dropped his hand and nodded.
 
Looking back, the American saw a wild mob charging down the platform toward him, and hastily swung himself aboard. As he dropped into his seat, he could hear the shrieks and oaths of the mêlée outside, and the next moment, a party of breathless and disheveled women were storming the door. They were panting, exhausted, inarticulate with rage and chagrin; they fell in, rolled in, stumbled in, until the compartment was jammed.
 
Stewart, swept from his seat at the first impact, but rallying and doing what he could to bring order out of chaos, could not but admire the manner in which his bearded fellow-passenger clung immovably to his seat until the last woman was aboard, and then reached quickly out, slammed shut the door, and held it shut, despite the entreaties of the lost souls who drifted despairingly past along the platform, seemingly blind, deaf, and totally uninterested in what was passing around him.
 
Then Stewart looked at the women. Nine were crowded into the seats; eight were standing; all were red and perspiring; and most of them had plainly lost their tempers. Stewart was perspiring himself, and he got out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead; then he ventured to speak.
 
"Well," he said; "so this is war! I have always heard it was warm work!"
 
Most of the women merely glared at him and went on adjusting their clothing, and fastening up their hair, and straightening their hats; but one, a buxom woman of forty-eight or fifty, who was crowded next to him, and who had evidently suffered more than her share of the general misfortune, turned sharply.
 
"Are you an American?" she demanded.
 
"I am, madam."
 
"And you stand by and see your countrywomen treated in this perfectly outrageous fashion?"
 
"My dear madam," protested Stewart, "what could one man—even an American—do against a thousand?"
 
"You could at least——"
 
"Nonsense, mother," broke in another voice, and Stewart turned to see that it was a slim, pale girl of perhaps twenty-two who spoke. "The gentleman is quite right. Besides, I thought it rather good fun."
 
"Good fun!" snapped her mother. "Good fun to be jerked about and trampled on and insulted! And where is our baggage? Will we ever see it again?"
 
"Oh, the baggage is safe enough," Stewart assured her. "The troops will detrain somewhere this side the frontier, and we can all take our old seats."
 
"But why should they travel by this train? Why should they not take another train? Why should they——"
 
"Are we all here?" broke in an anxious voice. "Is anyone missing?"
 
There was a moment's counting, then a general sigh of relief. The number was found correct.
 
From somewhere up the line a whistle sounded, and the state of the engine-driver's nerves could be inferred from the jerk with which he started—quite an American jerk. All the women who were standing, screamed and clutched at each other and swayed back and forth as if wrestling. Stewart found himself wrestling with the buxom woman.
 
"I cannot stand!" she declared. "It is outrageous that I should have to stand!" and she fixed glittering eyes upon the bearded stranger. "No American would remain seated while a woman of my age was standing!"
 
But the bearded stranger gazed blandly out of the window at the passing landscape.
 
There was a moment's silence, during which everyone looked at the heartless culprit. Stewart had an uneasy feeling that, if he were to do his duty as an American, he would grab the offender by the collar and hurl him through the window. Then the woman next to the stranger bumped resolutely into him, pressed him into the corner, and disclosed a few inches of the seat.
 
"Sit here, Mrs. Field," she said. "We can all squeeze up a little."
 
The pressure was tremendous when Mrs. Field sat down; but the carriage was strongly built and the sides held. The slender girl came and stood by Stewart.
 
"What's it all about?" she asked. "Has there been a riot or something?"
 
"There is going to be a most awful riot," answered Stewart, "unless all signs fail. Germany is mobilizing her troops to attack France."
 
"To attack France! How outrageous! It's that Kaiser Wilhelm, I suppose! Well, I hope France will simply clean him up!"
 
"So do I!" cried her mother. "The Germans are not gentlemen. They do not know how to treat women!"
 
"'Kochen, Kirche und Kinder!'" quoted somebody, in a high voice.
 
"But see here," protested Stewart, with a glance at the bearded stranger, who was still staring steadily out of the window, "if I were you, I'd wait till I was out of Germany before saying so. It would be safer!"
 
"Safer!" echoed an elderly woman with a high nose. "I should like to see them harm an American!"
 
Stewart turned away to the window with a gesture of despair, and caught the laughing eyes of the girl who stood beside him.
 
"Don't blame them too much," she said. "They're not themselves. Usually they are all quite polite and well-behaved; but now they are perfectly savage. And I don't blame them. I didn't mind so much, because I'm slim and long-legged and not very dignified; but if I were a stout, elderly woman, rather proud of my appearance, I would bitterly resent being yanked out of a seat and violently propelled across a platform by a bearded ruffian with dirty hands. Wouldn't you?"
 
"Yes," agreed Stewart, laughing; "I should probably kick and bite and behave in a most undignified manner."
 
The girl leaned closer.
 
"Some of them did!" she murmured.
 
Stewart laughed again and looked at her with fresh interest. It was something to find a woman who could preserve her sense of humor under such circumstances.
 
"You have been doing the continent?" he asked.
 
"Yes, seventeen of us; all from Philadelphia."
 
"And you've had a good time, of course?"
 
"We'd have had a better if we had brought a man along. I never realized before how valuable men are. Women aren't fitted by nature to wrestle with time-tables and cabbies and hotel-bills and headwaiters. This trip has taught me to respect men more than I have ever done."
 
"Then it hasn't been wasted. But you say you're from Philadelphia. I know some people in Philadelphia—the Courtlandt Bryces are sort of cousins of mine."
 
But the girl shook her head.
 
"That sort of thing happens only in novels," she said. "But there is no reason I shouldn't tell you my name, if you want to know it. It is Millicent Field, and its possessor is very undistinguished—just a school-teacher—not at all in the same social circle as the Courtlandt Bryces."
 
Stewart colored a little.
 
"My name is Bradford Stewart," he said, "and I also am very undistinguished—just a surgeon on the staff at Johns Hopkins. Did you get to Vienna?"
 
"No; that was too far for us."
 
"There was a clinic there; I saw some wonderful things. These German surgeons certainly know their business."
 
Miss Field made a little grimace.
 
"Perhaps," she admitted. "But do you know the impression of Germany that I am taking home with me? It is that Germany is a country run solely in the interests of the male half of creation. Women are tolerated only because they are necessary in the scheme of things."
 
Stewart laughed.
 
"There was a book published a year or two ago," he said, "called 'Germany and the Germans.' Perhaps you read it?"
 
"No."
 
"I remember it for one remark. Its author says that Germany is the only country on earth where the men's hands are better kept than the women's."
 
Miss Field clapped her hands in delight.
 
"Delicious!" she cried. "Splendid! And it is true," she added, more seriously. "Did you see the women cleaning the streets in Munich?"
 
"Yes."
 
"And harvesting the grain, and spreading manure, and carrying great burdens—doing all the dirty work and the heavy work. What are the men doing, I should like to know?"
 
"Madam," spoke up the bearded stranger by the window, in a deep voice which made everybody jump, "I will tell you what the men are doing—they are in the army, preparing themselves for the defense of their fatherland. Do you think it is of choice they leave the harvesting and street-cleaning and carrying of burdens to their mothers and wives and sisters? No; it is because for them is reserved a greater task—the task of confronting the revengeful hate of France, the envious hate of England, the cruel hate of Russia. That is their task to-day, madam, and they accept it with light hearts, confident of victory!"
 
There was a moment's silence. Mrs. Field was the first to find her voice.
 
"All the same," she said, "that does not justify the use of cows as draft animals!"
 
The German stared at her an instant in astonishment, then turned away to the window with a gesture of contempt, as of one who refuses to argue with lunatics, and paid no further heed to the Americans.
 
With them, the conversation turned from war, which none of them really believed would come, to home, for which they were all longing. Home, Stewart told himself, means everything to middle-aged women of fixed habits. It was astonishing that they should tear themselves away from it, even for a tour of Europe, for to them travel meant martyrdom. Home! How their eyes brightened as they spoke the word! They were going through to Brussels, then to Ostend, after a look at Ghent and Bruges, and so to England and their boat.
 
"I intend to spend the afternoon at Aix-la-Chapelle," said Stewart, "and go on to Brussels to-night or in the morning. Perhaps I shall see you there."
 
Miss Field mentioned the hotel at which the party would stop.
 
"What is there at Aix-la-Chapelle?" she asked. "I suppose I ought to know, but I don't."
 
"There's a cathedral, with the tomb of Charlemagne, and his throne, and a lot of other relics. I was always impressed by Charlemagne. He was the real thing in the way of emperors."
 
"I should like to see his tomb," said Miss Field. "Why can't we stop at Aix-la-Chapelle, mother?"
 
But Mrs. Field shook her head.
 
"We will get out of Germany as quickly as we can," she said, and the other members of the party nodded their hearty agreement.
 
Meanwhile the train rolled steadily on through a beautiful and peaceful country, where war seemed incredible and undreamed of. White villas dotted the thickly-wooded hillsides; quaint villages huddled in the valleys. And finally the train crossed a long viaduct and rumbled into the station at Aix-la-Chapelle.
 
The platform was deserted, save for a few guards and porters. Stewart opened the door and was about to step out, when a guard waved him violently back. Looking forward, he saw that the soldiers were detraining.
 
"Good!" he said. "You can get your old seats again!" and, catching the eye of the guard, gave him a nod which promised a liberal tip.
 
That worthy understood it perfectly, and the moment the last soldier was on the platform, he beckoned to Stewart and his party, assisted them to find their old compartments, ejected a peasant who had taken refuge in one of them, assured the ladies that they would have no further inconvenience, and summoned a porter to take charge of Stewart's suit-cases. In short, he did everything he could to earn the shining three-mark piece which Stewart slipped into his hand.
 
And then, after receiving the thanks of the ladies and promising to look them up in Brussels, Stewart followed his porter across the platform to the entrance.
 
Millicent Field looked after him a little wistfully.
 
"How easy it is for a man to do things!" she remarked to nobody in particular. "Never speak to me again of woman suffrage!"
CHAPTER III "STATE OF WAR"
 Stewart, following his porter, was engulfed in the human tide which had been beating clamorously against the gates, and which surged forward across the platform as soon as they were opened. There were tourists of all nations, alarmed by the threat of war, and there were also many people who, to Stewart at least, appeared to be Germans; and all of them were running toward the train, looking neither to the right nor left, dragging along as much luggage as they could carry.
 
As he stepped aside for a moment out of the way of this torrent, Stewart found himself beside the bearded stranger who had waxed eloquent in defense of Germany. He was watching the crowd with a look at once mocking and sardonic, as a spider might watch a fly struggling vainly to escape from the web. He glanced at Stewart, then turned away without any sign of recognition.
 
"Where do you go, sir?" the porter asked, when they were safely through the gates.
 
"To the Kölner Hof."
 
"It is but a step," said the porter, and he unhooked his belt, passed it through the handles of the suit-cases, hooked it together again and lifted it to his shoulder. "This way, sir, if you please."
 
The Kölner Hof proved to be a modest inn just around the corner, where Stewart was received most cordially by the plump, high-colored landlady. Lunch would be ready in a few minutes; meanwhile, if the gentleman would follow the waiter, he would be shown to a room where he could remove the traces of his journey. But first would the gentleman fill in the blank required by the police?
 
So Stewart filled in the blank, which demanded his name, his nationality, his age, his business, his home address, the place from which he had come to Aix-la-Chapelle and the place to which he would go on leaving it, handed it back to the smiling landlady, and followed an ugly, hang-dog waiter up the stair.
 
The room into which he was shown was a very pleasant one, scrupulously clean, and as he made his toilet, Stewart reflected how much more of comfort and how much warmer welcome was often to be had at the small inns than at the big ones, and mentally thanked the officer of police who had recommended this one. He found he had further reason for gratitude when he sat down to lunch, served on a little table set in one corner of a shady court—the best lunch he had eaten for a long time, as he told the landlady when she came out presently, knitting in hand, and sat down near him. She could speak a little English, it appeared, and a little French, and these, with Stewart's little German, afforded a medium of communication limping, it is true, but sufficient.
 
She received the compliments of her guest with the dignity of one who knew them to be deserved.
 
"I do what I can to please my patrons," she said; "and indeed I have had no cause to complain, for the season has been very good. But this war—it will ruin us innkeepers—there will be no more travelers. Already, I hear, Spa, Ostend, Carlsbad, Baden—such places as those—are deserted just when the season should be at its best. What do you think of it—this war?"
 
"Most probably it is just another scare," said Stewart. "War seems scarcely possible in these days—it is too cruel, too absurd. An agreement will be reached."
 
"I am sure I hope so, sir; but it looks very bad. For three days now our troops have been passing through Aachen toward the frontier."
 
"How far away is the frontier?"
 
"About ten miles. The customhouse is at Herbesthal."
 
"Ten miles!" echoed Stewart in surprise. "The frontier of France?"
 
"Oh, no—the frontier of Belgium."
 
"But why should they concentrate along the Belgian frontier?" Stewart demanded.
 
"Perhaps they fear an attack from that direction. Or perhaps," she added, calmly, "they are preparing to seize Belgium. I have often heard it said that Belgium should belong to Germany."
 
"But look here," protested Stewart, hotly, "Germany can't seize a country just because it happens to be smaller and weaker than she is!"
 
"Can't she?" inquired the landlady, seemingly astonished at his indignation. "Why is that?"
 
Her eyes were shining strangely as she lowered them to her knitting; and there was a moment's silence, broken only by the rapid clicking of her needles. For Stewart found himself unable to answer her question. Ever since history began, big countries had been seizing smaller ones, and great powers crushing weaker ones. If Austria might seize Bosnia and Italy Tripoli, why might not Germany seize Belgium? And he suddenly realized that, in spite of protests and denials and hypocrisies, between nation and nation the law of the jungle was, even yet, often the only law!
 
"At any rate," pursued the landlady, at last, "I have heard that great intrenchments are being built all along there, and that supplies for a million men have been assembled. There has been talk of war many times before, and nothing has come of it; but there have never been such preparations as these."
 
"Let us hope it is only the Kaiser rattling his sword again—a little louder than usual. I confess," he added more soberly, "that as an American I haven't much sympathy with Prussian militarism. I have sometimes thought that a war which would put an end to it once for all would be a good thing."
 
The woman shot him a glance surprisingly quick and piercing.
 
"That is also the opinion of many here in Germany," she said in a low voice; "but it is an opinion which cannot be uttered." She checked herself quickly as the ugly waiter approached. "How long will the gentleman remain in Aachen?" she asked, in another tone.
 
"I am going on to Brussels this evening. There is a train at six o'clock, is there not?"
 
"At six o'clock, yes, sir. It will be well for the gentleman to have a light dinner before his departure. The train may be delayed—and the journey to Brussels is of seven hours."
 
"Very well," agreed Stewart, rising. "I will be back about five. How does one get to the cathedral?"
 
"Turn to your right, sir, as you leave the hotel. The first street is the Franzstrasse. It will lead you straight to the church."
 
Stewart thanked her and set off. The Franzstrasse proved to be a wide thoroughfare, bordered by handsome shops, but many of them were closed and the street itself was almost deserted. It opened upon a narrower street, at the end of which Stewart could see the lofty choir of the minster.
 
Presently he became aware of a chorus of high-pitched voices, which grew more and more distinct as he advanced. It sounded like a lot of women in violent altercation, and then in a moment he saw what it was, for he came out upon an open square covered with market-stalls, and so crowded that one could scarcely get across it. Plainly the frugal wives of Aachen were laying in supplies against the time when all food would grow scarce and dear, and from the din of high-pitched bargaining it was evident that the crafty market-people had already begun to advance their prices.
 
Stewart paused for a while to contemplate this scene, far more violent and war-like than any he had yet witnessed; then, edging around the crowd, he arrived at the cathedral, the most irregular and eccentric that he had ever seen—a towering Gothic choir attached to an octagonal Byzantine nave. But that nave is very impressive, as Stewart found when he stepped inside it; and then, on a block of stone in its pavement, he saw the words, "Carlo Magno," and knew that he was at the tomb of the great Emperor.
 
It is perhaps not really the tomb, but for emotional purposes it answers very well, and there can be no question about the marble throne and other relics which Stewart presently inspected, under the guidance of a black-clad verger. Then, as there was a service in progress in the choir, he sat down, at the verger's suggestion, to wait till it was over.
 
In a small chapel at his right, a group of candles glowed before an altar dedicated to the Virgin, and here, on the low benches, many women knelt in prayer. More and more slipped in quietly—young women, old women, some shabby, some well-clad—until the benches were full; and after that the newcomers knelt on the stone pavement and besought the Mother of Christ to guard their sons and husbands and sweethearts, summoned to fight the battles of the Emperor. Looking at them—at their bowed heads, their drawn faces, their shrinking figures—Stewart realized for the first time how terrible is the burden which war lays on women. To bear sons, to rear them—only to see them march away when the dreadful summons came; to bid good-by to husband or to lover, crushing back the tears, masking the stricken heart; and then to wait, day after dreary day, in agony at every rumor, at every knock, at every passing footstep, with no refuge save in prayer——
 
But such thoughts were too painful. To distract them, he got out his Baedeker and turned its pages absently until he came to Aachen. First the railway stations—there were four, it seemed; then the hotels—the Grand Monarque, the Nuellens, the Hôtel de l'Empereur, the du Nord—strange that so many of them should be French, in name at least!—the Monopol, the Imperial Crown—but where was the Kölner Hof? He ran through the list again more carefully—no, it was not there. And yet that police-officer at Cologne had asserted not only that it was in Baedeker, but that it was honored with a star! Perhaps in the German edition——
 
A touch on the arm apprised him that the verger was ready to take him through the choir, where the service was ended, and Stewart slipped his book back into his pocket and followed him. It is a lovely choir, soaring toward the heavens in airy beauty, but Stewart had no eyes for it. He found suddenly that he wanted to get away. He was vaguely uneasy. The memory of those kneeling women weighed him down. For the first time he really believed that war might come.
 
So he tipped the verger and left the church and came out into the streets again, to find them emptier than ever. Nearly all the shops were closed; there was no vehicle of any kind; there were scarcely any people. And then, as he turned the corner into the wide square in front of the town-hall, he saw where at least some of the people were, for a great crowd had gathered there—a crowd of women and children and old men—while from the steps before the entrance an official in gold-laced uniform and cocked hat was delivering a harangue.
 
At first, Stewart could catch only a word here and there, but as he edged closer, he found that the speech was a eulogy of the Kaiser—of his high wisdom, his supreme greatness, his passionate love for his people. The Kaiser had not sought war, he had strained every nerve for peace; but the jealous enemies who ringed Germany round, who looked with envy upon her greatness and dreamed only of destroying her, would not give her peace. So, with firm heart and abiding trust in God, the Emperor had donned his shining armor and unsheathed his sword, confident that Germany would emerge from the struggle greater and stronger than ever.
 
Then the speaker read the Emperor's address, and reminded his hearers that all they possessed, even to their lives and the lives of their loved ones, belonged to their Fatherland, to be yielded ungrudgingly when need arose. He cautioned them that the military power was now supreme, not to be questioned. It would brook no resistance nor interference. Disobedience would be severely dealt with. It was for each of them to go quietly about his affairs, trusting in the Emperor's wisdom, and to pray for victory.
 
There were some scattered cheers, but the crowd for the most part stood in dazed silence and watched two men put up beside the entrance to the rathaus the proclamation which declared Germany in a state of war. Down the furrowed cheeks of many of the older people the hot tears poured in streams, perhaps at remembrance of the horrors and suffering of Germany's last war with France, and some partial realization that far greater horrors and suffering were to come. Then by twos and threes they drifted away to their homes, talking in bated undertone, or shuffling silently along, staring straight before them. In every face were fear and grief and a sullen questioning of fate.
 
Why had this horror been decreed for them? What had they done that this terrible burden should be laid upon them? What could war bring any one of them but sorrow and privation? Was there no way of escape? Had they no voice in their own destiny? These were the questions which surged through Stewart's mind as he slowly crossed the square and made his way along the silent streets back toward his hotel. At almost every corner a red poster stared at him—a poster bearing the Prussian eagle and the Kaiser's name. "The sword has been thrust into our hands," the Kaiser wrote. "We must defend our Fatherland and our homes against the assaults of our enemies. Forward with God, who will be with us, as He was with our fathers!"
 
Sad as he had never been before, Stewart walked on. Something was desperately wrong somewhere; this people did not want war—most probably even the Kaiser did not want war. Yet war had come; the fate of Europe was trembling in the balance; millions of men were being driven to a detested task. Caught up in mighty armies by a force there, was no resisting, they were marching blindly to kill and be killed——
 
A sudden outbreak of angry voices in the street ahead startled Stewart from his thoughts. A section of soldiers was halted before a house at whose door a violent controversy was in progress between their sergeant and a wrinkled old woman.
 
"I tell you we must have him," the sergeant shouted, as though for the twentieth time.
 
"And I tell you his wife is dying," shrieked the woman. "He has permission from his captain."
 
"I know nothing about that. My orders are to gather in all stragglers."
 
"It is only a question of a few hours."
 
"He must come now," repeated the sergeant, doggedly. "Those are the orders. If he disobeys them—if I am compelled to use force—he will be treated as a deserter. Will you tell him, or must I send my men in to get him?"
 
The sunken eyes flamed with rage, the wrinkled face was contorted with hate—but only for an instant. The flame died; old age, despair, the habit of obedience, reasserted themselves. A tear trickled down the cheek—a tear of helplessness and resignation.
 
"I will tell him, sir," she said, and disappeared indoors.
 
The sergeant turned back to his men, cursing horribly to himself. Suddenly he spat upon the pavement in disgust.
 
"A devil's job!" he muttered, and took a short turn up and down, without looking at his men. In a moment the old woman reappeared in the door. "Well, mother?" he demanded, gruffly.
 
"I have told him. He will be here at once."
 
As she spoke, a fair-haired youth of perhaps twenty appeared on the threshold and saluted. His eyes were red with weeping, but he held himself proudly erect.
 
"Hermann Gronau?" asked the sergeant.
 
"Yes."
 
"Fall in!"
 
With a shriek of anguish, the woman threw her arms about him and strained him close.
 
"My boy!" she moaned. "My youngest one—my baby—they are taking you also!"
 
"I shall be back, mother, never fear," he said, and loosened her arms gently. "You will write me when—when it is over."
 
"Yes," she promised, and he took his place in the ranks.
 
"March!" cried the sergeant, and the section tramped away with Gronau in its midst. At the corner, he turned and waved his hand in farewell to the old woman. For a moment longer she stood clutching at the door and staring at the place where he had vanished, then turned slowly back into the house.
CHAPTER IV THE MYSTERY OF THE SATIN SLIPPERS
 Stewart, awakening from the contemplation of this poignant drama—one of thousands such enacting at that moment all over Europe—realized that he was lingering unduly and hastened his steps. At the end of five minutes, he was again in the wide Franzstrasse, and, turning the last corner, saw his landlady standing at her door, looking anxiously up and down the street.
 
Her face brightened with relief when she saw him—a relief so evidently deep and genuine that Stewart was a little puzzled by it.
 
"But I am glad to see you!" she cried as he came up, her face wreathed in smiles. "I was imagining the most horrible things. I feared I know not what! But you are safe, it seems."
 
"Quite safe. In fact, I was never in any danger."
 
"I was foolish, no doubt, to have fear. But in times like these, one never knows what may happen."
 
"True enough," Stewart agreed. "Still, an American with a passport in his pocket ought to be safe anywhere."
 
"Ah; you have a passport—that is good. That will simplify matters. The police have been here to question you. They will return presently."
 
"The police?"
 
"There have been some spies captured, it seems. And there are many who are trying to leave the country. So everyone is suspected. You are not German-born, I hope? If you were, I fear not even your passport would be of use."
 
They had walked back together along the hall as they talked, and now stopped at the foot of the stair. The landlady seemed very nervous—as was perhaps natural amid the alarms of war. She scarcely listened to his assurance that he was American by birth. Little beads of perspiration stood out across her forehead——
 
"The police visited your room," she rattled on. "You will perhaps find your baggage disarranged."
 
Stewart smiled wryly.
 
"So it seems they really suspect me?"
 
"They suspect everyone," the landlady repeated.
 
She was standing with her back toward the door, and Stewart wondered why she should watch his face so closely.
 
Suddenly, over her shoulder, he saw the ugly waiter with the hang-dog air approaching along the hall.
 
"Such anxiety is quite natural," said the landlady rapidly in German, raising her voice a little. "I can understand it. But it is not remarkable that you should have missed her—the trains are so irregular. I will send her to you the moment she arrives. Ah, Hans," she added, turning at the sound of the waiter's footsteps, "so you are back at last! You will take up some hot water to the gentleman at once. And now you will excuse me, sir; I have the dinner to attend to," and she hurried away, carrying the waiter with her.
 
Stewart stood for an instant staring after her; then he turned and mounted slowly to his room. But what had the woman meant? Why should he be anxious? Who was it he had missed? "I will send her to you the moment she arrives." No—she could not have said that—it was impossible that she should have said that. He must have misunderstood; his German was very second-rate, and she had spoken rapidly. But what had she said?
 
He was still pondering this problem, when a knock at the door told him that the hot water had arrived. As he opened the door, the landlady's voice came shrilly up the stair.
 
"Hans!" she called. "There is something wrong with the stove. Hasten! Hasten!"
 
Stewart took the can which was thrust hastily into his hand, turned back into the room, and proceeded to make a leisurely toilet. If the landlady had not told him, he would never have suspected that his baggage had been searched by the police, for everything seemed to be where he had left it. But then he was a hasty and careless packer, by no means precise——
 
That vague feeling of uneasiness which had shaken him in the church swept over him again, stronger than before; there was something wrong somewhere; the meshes of an invisible net seemed closing about him. More than once he caught himself standing quite still, in an attitude of profound meditation, though he was not conscious that he had really been thinking of anything. Evidently the events of the day had shaken him more deeply than he had realized.
 
"Come, old man," he said at last, "this won't do. Pull yourself together."
 
And then a sudden vivid memory rose before him of those praying women, of that wrinkled mother gazing despairingly after her youngest born as he was marched away perhaps forever, of the set faces of the crowd shuffling silently homeward——
 
He had been absently turning over the contents of one of his bags, searching for a necktie, when he found himself staring at a pair of satin ball-slippers, into each of which was stuffed a blue silk stocking. For quite a minute he stared, doubting his own senses; then he picked up one of the slippers and looked at it.
 
It was a tiny affair, very delicate and beautiful—a real jewel in footwear, such as Stewart, with his limited feminine experience, had never seen before. Indeed, he might have doubted that they were intended for actual service, but for the slight discoloration inside the heel, which proved that these had been worn more than once. Very deliberately he drew out the stocking, also a jewel in its way, of a texture so diaphanous as to be almost cobweblike. Then he picked up the other slipper and held them side by side. Yes, they were mates——
 
"But where on earth could I have picked them up?" he asked himself. "In what strange fit of absent-mindedness could I have packed them with my things? But I couldn't have picked them up—I never saw them before——"
 
He sat down suddenly, a slipper in either hand. They must have come from somewhere—they could not have concealed themselves among his things. If he had not placed them there, then someone else had. But who? And for what purpose? The police? His landlady had said that they had searched his luggage; but what possible object could they have had for increasing it by two satin slippers and a pair of stockings? Such an action was farcical—French-farcical!—but he could not be incriminated in such a way. He had no wife to be made jealous! And even if he had——
 
"This is the last straw!" he muttered to himself. "Either the world has gone mad, or I have."
 
Moving as in a dream, he placed the slippers side by side upon the floor, contemplated them for a moment longer, and then proceeded slowly with his dressing. He found an unaccustomed difficulty in putting his buttons in his cuffs, and then he remembered that it was a tie he had been looking for when he found the slippers. The slippers! He turned and glanced at them. Yes—they were still there—they had not vanished. Very coquettish they appeared, standing there side by side, as though waiting for their owner.
 
And suddenly Stewart smiled a crooked smile.
 
"Only one thing is necessary to complete this pantomime," he told himself, "and that is that the Princess should suddenly appear and claim them. Well, I'm willing! A woman with a foot like that——"
 
There was a knock at the door.
 
"In a moment!" he called.
 
"But it is I!" cried a woman's voice in English—a sweet, high-pitched voice, quivering with excitement. "It is I!" and the door was flung open with a crash.
 
A woman rushed toward him—he saw vaguely her vivid face, her shining eyes; behind her, more vaguely still, he saw the staring eyes of the hang-dog waiter. Then she was upon him.
 
"At last!" she cried, and flung her arms about him and kissed him on the lips—kissed him closely, passionately, as he had never been kissed before.
 
CHAPTER V ONE WAY TO ACQUIRE A WIFE
 Stewart, standing petrified, collar in hand, thrilling with the warmth of that caress, was conscious that his free arm had dropped about the woman's waist, and that she was cuddling to him, patting him excitedly on the cheek and smiling up into his eyes. Then, over her shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the sardonic smile on the ugly face of the waiter as he withdrew and closed the door.
 
"But how glad I am!" the woman rattled on, at the top of her voice. "And what a journey! I am covered with dirt! I shall need gallons of water!"
 
She walked rapidly to the door, opened it, and looked out. Then she closed and locked it, and, to his amazement, caught up one of his handkerchiefs and hung it over the knob so that it masked the keyhole.
 
"They will not suspect," she said, in a lower tone, noticing his look. "They will suppose it is to conceal our marital endearments! Now we can talk. But we will keep to English, if you do not mind. Someone might pass. Is everything arranged? Is the passport in order?"
 
Her eyes were shining with excitement, her lips were trembling. As he still stood staring, she came close to him and shook his arm.
 
"Can it be that you do not know English?" she demanded. "But that would be too stupid! You understand English, do you not?"
 
"Yes, madam," stammered Stewart. "At least, I have always thought so."
 
"Then why do you not answer? Is anything wrong? You look as though you did not expect me."
 
"Madam," answered Stewart, gravely, "will you kindly pinch me on the arm—here in the tender part? I have been told that is a test."
 
She nipped him with a violence that made him jump.
 
"Do not tell me that you are drunk!" she hissed, viciously. "That would be too much! Drunk at such a moment!"
 
But Stewart had begun to pull himself together.
 
"No, madam, I am not drunk," he assured her; "and your pinch convinces me that I am not dreaming." He rubbed his arm thoughtfully. "There remains only one hypothesis—that I have suddenly gone mad. And yet I have never heard of any madness in my family, nor until this moment detected any symptoms in myself."
 
"Is this a time for fooling?" she snapped. "Tell me at once—"
 
"There is, of course, another hypothesis," went on Stewart, calmly, "and that is that it is you who are mad—"
 
"Were you not expecting me?" she repeated.
 
Stewart's eyes fell upon the satin slippers, and he smiled.
 
"Why, certainly I was expecting you," he answered. "I was just saying to myself that the only thing lacking in this fairy-tale was the beautiful Cinderella—and presto; there you were!"
 
She looked at him wildly, her eyes dark with fear. Suddenly she caught her lower lip between the thumb and little finger of her left hand, and stood a moment expectantly, holding it so and staring up at him. Then, as he stared back uncomprehendingly, she dropped into a chair and burst into a flood of tears.
 
Now a pretty woman in tears is, as everyone knows, a sight to melt a heart of stone, especially if that heart be masculine. This woman was extremely pretty, and Stewart's heart was very masculine, with nothing granitic about it.
 
"Oh, come," he protested, "it can't be so bad as that! Let us sit down and talk this thing out quietly. Evidently there is a mistake somewhere."
 
"Then you did not expect me?" she demanded, mopping her eyes.
 
"Expect you? No—except as the fulfillment of a fairy-tale."
 
"You do not know who I am?"
 
"I haven't the slightest idea."
 
"Nor why I am here?"
 
"No."
 
"Ah, ciel!" she breathed, "then I am lost!" and she turned so pale that Stewart thought she was going to faint.
 
"Lost!" he protested. "In what way lost? What do you mean?"
 
By a mighty effort she fought back the faintness and regained a little of her self-control.
 
"At this hotel," she explained, in a hoarse voice, "I was to have met a man who was to accompany me across the frontier. He had a passport for both of us—for himself and for his wife."
 
"You were to pass as his wife?"
 
"Yes."
 
"But you did not know the man?"
 
"Evidently—or I should not have—"
 
She stopped, her face crimson with embarrassment.
 
"H-m!" said Stewart, reflecting that he, at least, had no reason to regret the mistake. "Perhaps this unknown is in some other room."
 
"No; you are the only person in the hotel."
 
"Evidently, then, he has not arrived."
 
"Evidently," she assented, and stared moodily at the floor, twisting her handkerchief in nervous, trembling hands.
 
Stewart rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked at her. She seemed not more than twenty, and she was almost startlingly beautiful, with that peculiar lustrous duskiness of skin more common among the Latin races than with us. Slightly built, she yet gave the impression of having in reserve unusual nervous energy, which would brace her to meet any crisis.
 
But what was she doing here? Why should she be driven to leave Germany as the wife of a man whom she had never seen? Or was it all a lie—was she merely an adventuress seeking a fresh victim?
 
Stewart looked at her again, then he put that thought away, definitely and forever. He had had enough experience of women, as surgeon in a public clinic, to tell innocence from vice; and he knew that it was innocence he was facing now.
 
"You say you can't leave Germany without a passport?" he asked at last.
 
"No one can leave Germany without a passport." She sat up suddenly and looked at him, a new light in her eyes. "Is it possible," she demanded, with trembling lips, "can it be possible that you possess a passport?"
 
"Why, yes," said Stewart, "I have a passport. Unfortunately, it is for myself alone. Never having had a wife——"
 
But she was standing before him, her hands outstretched, tremulous with eagerness.
 
"Let me see it!" she cried. "Oh, let me see it!"
 
He got it out, gave it to her, and watched her as she unfolded it. Here was a woman, he told himself, such as he had never met before—a woman of verve, of fire——
 
She was looking up at him with flaming eyes.
 
"Mr. Stewart," she said, in a low voice, "you can save me, if you will."
 
"Save you?" echoed Stewart. "But how?"
 
She held the open passport toward him.
 
"See, here, just below your name, there is a blank space covered with little parallel lines. If you will permit me to write in that space the words 'accompanied by his wife,' I am saved. The passport will then be for both of us."
 
"Or would be," agreed Stewart, dryly, "if you were my wife. As it happens, you are not!"
 
"It is such a little thing I ask of you," she pleaded. "We go to the station together—we take our seats in the train—at the frontier you show your passport. An hour later we shall be at Liège, and there our ways will part; but you will have done a noble action."
 
There was witchery in her eyes, in her voice. Stewart felt himself slipping—slipping; but he caught himself in time.
 
"I am afraid," he said, gently, "that you will have to tell me first what it is all about."
 
"I can tell you in a word," she answered, drawing very near to him, and speaking almost in a whisper. "I am a Frenchwoman."
 
"But surely," Stewart protested, "the Germans will not prevent your return to France! Why should they do that?"
 
"It is not a question of returning, but of escaping. I am an Alsatian. I was born at Strassburg."
 
"Oh," said Stewart, remembering the tone in which Bloem had spoken of Alsace-Lorraine and beginning vaguely to understand. "An Alsatian."
 
"Yes; but only Alsatians understand the meaning of that word. To be an Alsatian is to be a slave, is to be the victim of insult, oppression, tyranny past all belief. My father was murdered by the Germans; my two brothers have been dragged away into the German army and sent to fight the Russians, since Germany knows well that no Alsatian corps would fight the French! Oh, how we have prayed and prayed for this war of restitution—the war which will give us back to France!"
 
"Yes; I hope it will," agreed Stewart, heartily.
 
"Of a certainty you do!" she said, eagerly. "All Americans do. Not one have I ever known who took the German side. How could they? How could any American be on the side of despotism? Oh, impossible! America is on our side! And you, as an American, will assist me to escape my enemies."
 
"Your enemies?"
 
"I will not deceive you," she said, earnestly. "I trust you. I have lived all my life at Strassburg and at Metz, those two outposts against France—those two great fortresses of cities which the Germans have done their utmost to make impregnable, but which are not impregnable if attacked in a certain way. They have their weak spot, just as every fortress has. I have dissembled, I have lied—I have pretended to admire the gold-laced pigs—I have permitted them to kiss my hand—I have listened to their confidences, their hopes and fears—I have even joined in their toast 'The Day!' Always, always have I kept my eyes and ears open. Bit by bit, have I gathered what I sought—a hint here, a hint there.... I must get to France, my friend, and you must help me! Surely you will be glad to strike a blow at these braggart Prussians! It is not for myself I ask it—though, if I am taken, there will be for me only one brief moment, facing a file of soldiers; I ask it for France—for your sister Republic!"
 
If it had been for France alone, Stewart might still have hesitated; but as he gazed down into that eloquent face, wrung with desperate anxiety, he seemed to see, as in a vision, a file of soldiers in spiked helmets facing a wall where stood a lovely girl, her eyes flaming, her head flung back, smiling contemptuously at the leveled rifles; he saw again the flickering candles at the Virgin's feet——
 
"Very well," he said, abruptly—almost harshly. "I consent."
 
Before he could draw back, she had flung herself on her knees before him, had caught his hand, and was covering it with tears and kisses.
 
"Come, come, my dear," he said. "That won't do!" And he bent over her and raised her to her feet.
 
She was shaken with great sobs, and as she turned her streaming eyes up to him, her lips moving as if in prayer, Stewart saw how young she was, how lonely, how beautiful, how greatly in need of help. She had been fighting for her country with all her strength, with every resource, desperately, every nerve a-strain—and victory had been too much for her. But in a moment she had back her self-control.
 
"There, it is finished!" she said, smiling through her tears. "But the joy of your words was almost too great. I shall not behave like that again. And I shall not try to thank you. I think you understand—I cannot thank you—there are no words great enough."
 
Stewart nodded, smilingly.
 
"Yes; I understand," he said.
 
"We have many things to do," she went on, rapidly, passing her handkerchief across her eyes with the gesture of one who puts sentiment aside. "First, the passport," and she caught it up from the chair on which she had laid it.
 
"I would point out to you," said Stewart, "that there may be a certain danger in adding the words you mentioned."
 
"But it is precisely for those words this blank space has been left."
 
"That may be true; but unless your handwriting is identical with that on the rest of the passport, and the ink the same, the first person who looks at it will detect the forgery."
 
"Trust me," she said, and drawing a chair to the table, laid the passport before her and studied it carefully. From the little bag she had carried on her arm, she took a fountain-pen. She tested it on her finger-nail, and then, easily and rapidly, wrote "accompanied by his wife" across the blank space below Stewart's name.
 
Stewart, staring down over her shoulder, was astonished by the cleverness of the forgery. It was perfect.
 
"There," she added, "let it lie for five minutes and no one on earth can tell that those words were not written at the same time and by the same hand as all the others."
 
A sudden doubt shook her hearer. Where had she learned to forge like that? Perhaps, after all——
 
She read his thought in his eyes.
 
"To imitate handwriting is something which every member of the secret service must learn to do. This, on your passport, is a formal hand very easily imitated. But I must rid myself of this pen."
 
She glanced quickly about the room, went to the open fireplace and threw the pen above the bricks which closed it off from the flue. Then she came back, motioned him to sit down, and drew a chair very close to his.
 
"Now we have certain details to arrange," she said. "Your name is Bradford Stewart?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Have you a sobriquet?"
 
"A what?"
 
"A name of familiarity," she explained, "used only by your family or your friends."
 
"Oh, a nickname! Well," he admitted, unwillingly, "my father always called me Tommy."
 
"Tommy! Excellent! I shall call you Tommy!"
 
"But I detest Tommy," he objected.
 
"No matter!" she said, peremptorily. "It will have to do. What is your profession?"
 
"I am a surgeon."
 
"Where do you live in America?"
 
"At Baltimore, in the State of Maryland."
 
"Where have you been in Europe?"
 
"To a clinical congress at Vienna, and then back through Germany."
 
"Perfect! It could not be better! Now, listen most carefully. The name of your wife is Mary. You have been married four years."
 
"Any children?" asked Stewart.
 
"Please be serious!" she protested, but from the sparkle in her eye Stewart saw that she was not offended.
 
"I should have liked a boy of three and a girl of two," he explained. "But no matter—go ahead."
 
"While you went to Vienna to attend your horrible clinic and learn new ways of cutting up human bodies, your wife remained at Spa, because of a slight nervous affection——"
 
"From which," said Stewart, "I am happy to see that she has entirely recovered."
 
"Yes," she agreed; "she is quite well again. Spa is in Belgium, so the Germans cannot disprove the story. We arranged to meet here and to go on to Brussels together. Do you understand?"
 
"Perfectly," said Stewart, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. "By the way, Mary," he added, "no doubt it was your shoes and stockings I found in my grip awhile ago," and he pointed to where the slippers stood side by side.
 
His companion stared at them for an instant in amazement, then burst into a peal of laughter.
 
"How ridiculous! But yes—they were intended for mine."
 
"How did they get into my luggage?"
 
"The woman who manages this inn placed them there. She is one of us."
 
"But what on earth for?"
 
"So that the police might find them when they searched your bags."
 
"Why should they search my bags?"
 
"There is a certain suspicion attaching to this place. It is impossible altogether to avoid it—so it is necessary to be very careful. The landlady thought that the discovery of the slippers might, in a measure, prepare the police for the arrival of your wife."
 
"Then she knew you were coming?"
 
"Certainly—since last night."
 
"And when the man who was to meet you did not arrive, she decided that I would do?"
 
"I suppose so."
 
"But how did she know I had a passport?"
 
"Perhaps you told her."
 
Yes, Stewart reflected, he had told her, and yet he was not altogether satisfied. When had he told her? Surely it was not until he returned from his tour of the town; then there was not time——
 
"Here is your passport," said his companion, abruptly breaking in upon his thoughts. "Fold it up and place it in your pocket. And do not find it too readily when the police ask for it. You must seem not to know exactly where it is. Also pack your belongings. Yes, you would better include the slippers. Meanwhile I shall try to make myself a little presentable," and she opened the tiny bag from which she had produced the pen.
 
"It seems to me," said Stewart, as he proceeded to obey, "that one pair of slippers and one pair of stockings is rather scanty baggage for a lady who has been at Spa for a month."
 
"My baggage went direct from Spa to Brussels," she answered from before the mirror, "in order to avoid the customs examination at the frontier. Have you any other questions?"
 
"Only the big one as to who you really are, and where I'm going to see you again after you have delivered your report—and all that."
 
His back was toward her as he bent over his bags, and he did not see the quick glance she cast at him.
 
"It is impossible to discuss that now," she said, hastily. "And I would warn you that the servant, Hans, is a spy. Be very careful before him—be careful always, until we are safe across the frontier. There will be spies everywhere—a false word, a false movement, and all may be lost. Are you ready?"
 
Stewart, rising from buckling the last strap, found himself confronting the most adorable girl he had ever seen. Every trace of the journey had disappeared. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes were shining, and when she smiled, Stewart noticed a dimple set diagonally at the corner of her mouth—a dimple evidently placed just there to invite and challenge kisses.
 
The admiration which flamed into his eyes was perhaps a trifle too ardent, for, looking at him steadily, she took a quick step toward him.
 
"We are going to be good friends, are we not?" she asked. "Good comrades?"
 
And Stewart, looking down at her, understood. She was pleading for respect; she was telling him that she trusted him; she was reminding him of the defenselessness of her girlhood, driven by hard necessity into this strange adventure. And, understanding, he reached out and caught her hand.
 
"Yes," he agreed. "Good comrades. Just that!"
 
She gave his fingers a swift pressure.
 
"Thank you," she said. "Now we must go down. Dinner will be waiting. Fortunately the train is very late."
 
Stewart, glancing at his watch, saw that it was almost six o'clock.
 
"You are sure it is late?" he asked.
 
"Yes; at least an hour. We will send someone to inquire. Remember what I have told you about the waiter—about everyone. Not for an instant must we drop the mask, even though we may think ourselves unobserved. You will remember?"
 
"I will try to," Stewart promised. "But don't be disappointed if you find me a poor actor. I am not in your class at all. However, if you'll give me the cue, I think I can follow it."
 
"I know you can. Come," and she opened the door, restoring him the handkerchief which she had hung over the knob.
 
As they went down the stair together, Stewart saw the landlady waiting anxiously at the foot. One glance at them, and her face became radiant.
 
"Ah, you are late!" she cried, shaking a reproving finger. "But I expected it. I would not permit Hans to call you. When husband and wife meet after a long separation, they do not wish to be disturbed—not even for dinner. This way! I have placed the table in the court—it is much pleasanter there when the days are so warm," and she bustled before them to a vine-shaded corner of the court, where a snowy table awaited them.
 
A moment later Hans entered with the soup. Stewart, happening to meet his glance, read the suspicion there.
 
"Well," he said, breaking off a piece of the crisp bread, "this is almost like home, isn't it? I can't tell you, Mary, how glad I am to have you back again," and he reached out and gave her hand a little squeeze. "Looking so well, too. Spa was evidently just the place for you."
 
"Yes—it was very pleasant and the doctor was very kind. But I am glad to get back to you, Tommy," she added, gazing at him fondly. "I could weep with joy just to look at that honest face of yours!"
 
Stewart felt his heart skip a beat.
 
"You will make me conceited, if you don't take care, old lady!" he protested. "And surely I've got enough cause for conceit already, with the most beautiful woman in the world sitting across from me, telling me she loves me. Don't blame me if I lose my head a little!"
 
The ardor in his tone brought the color into her cheeks.
 
"You must not look at me like that!" she reproved. "People will think we are on our moon of—our honeymoon," she corrected, hastily.
 
"Instead of having been married four years! I wonder how John and Sallie are getting along? Aren't you just crazy to see the kids!"
 
She choked over her soup, but managed to nod mutely. Then, as Hans removed the plates and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, he added in a lower tone, "You must allow me the children. I find I can't be happy without them!"
 
"Very well," she agreed, the dimple sparkling. "You have been so kind that it is impossible for me to refuse you anything!"
 
"There is one thing I can't understand. Your English astonishes me. Where did you learn to speak it so perfectly?"
 
"Ah, that is a long story! Perhaps I shall one day tell it to you—if we ever meet again."
 
"We must! I demand that as my reward!"
 
She held up a warning finger as steps sounded along the passage; but it was only the landlady bringing the wine. That good woman was exuberant—a trifle too exuberant, as Stewart's companion told her with a quick glance.
 
The dinner proceeded from course to course. Stewart had never enjoyed a meal more thoroughly. What meal, he asked himself, could possibly be commonplace, shared by such a woman?
 
The landlady presently dispatched Hans to the station to inquire about the train, while she herself did the serving, and the two women ventured to exchange a few words concerning their instructions. Stewart, listening, caught a glimpse of an intricate system of espionage extending to the very heart of Germany. But he asked no questions; indeed, some instinct held him back from wishing to know more. "Spy" is not a pretty word, nor is a spy's work pretty work; he refused to think of it in connection with the lovely girl opposite him.
 
"We shall have the police with us soon," said the landlady, in a low tone. "Hans will run at once to tell them of Madame's arrival."
 
"Why do you keep him?" Stewart asked.
 
"It is by keeping him that I avert suspicion. If there was anything wrong here, the police tell themselves, this spy of theirs would discover it. Knowing him to be a spy, I am on my guard. Besides, he is very stupid. But there—I will leave you. He may be back at any moment."
 
He came back just in time to serve the coffee, with the information that their train would not arrive until seven-thirty; then he stood watching them and listening to their talk of home and friends and plans for the future.
 
Stewart began to be proud of his facility of invention, and of his abilities as an actor. But he had to admit that he was the merest bungler compared with his companion. Her mental quickness dazzled him, her high spirits were far more exhilarating than the wine. He ended by forgetting that he was playing a part. This woman was really his wife, they were going on together——
 
Suddenly Hans stirred in his corner. Heavy steps were coming toward the court along the sanded floor of the corridor. In a moment three men in spiked helmets stepped out into the fading light of the evening.
 
"The police to speak to you, sir," said Hans, and Stewart, turning, found himself looking into three faces, in which hostility and suspicion were only too apparent.
 
CHAPTER VI THE SNARE
 As the three men advanced to the table, Stewart saw that each of them carried a heavy pistol in a holster at his belt.
 
"You speak German?" one of them asked, gruffly.
 
"A little. But I would prefer to speak English," answered Stewart.
 
"We will speak German. What is your nationality?"
 
"I am an American."
 
"Were you born in America?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Have you a passport?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Let me see it."
 
Stewart was about to reach into his pocket and produce it, when he remembered his companion's suggestion. So he felt in one pocket after another without result, while the Germans shifted impatiently from foot to foot.
 
"It must be in my other coat," he said, half to himself, enjoying the situation immensely. "But no; I do not remember changing it. Ah, here it is!" and he drew it forth and handed it to the officer.
 
The latter took it, unfolded it, and stepped out into the court where the light was better. He read it through carefully, compared the description point by point with Stewart's appearance, and then came back to the table.
 
"Who is this person?" he asked, and nodded toward the girl.
 
"She is my wife," answered Stewart, with a readiness which astonished himself.
 
"She did not arrive here with you."
 
"No," and he told the story of how he had left her at Spa to recuperate from a slight nervous attack, while he himself went on to Vienna. He omitted no detail—even added a few, indeed, in the fervor of creation—and with his limited German, which his hearers regarded with evident contempt, the story took some time to tell.
 
The police listened attentively to every word, without the slightest sign of impatience, but long before it was ended, the lady in question was twisting nervously in her seat.
 
"What is the matter, Tommy?" she demanded, petulantly. "Are you relating to them the story of your life?"
 
"No," he explained, blandly, venturing at last to look at her, "I was just telling them how it was that you and I had arranged to meet at this hotel."
 
"Well—now tell them to go away. They are ugly and they annoy me."
 
"What does she say?" asked the officer.
 
Stewart was certain that at least one of them knew English, so he judged it best to translate literally.
 
"She wants to know what is the matter," he answered. "She asks me to tell you to go away—that you annoy her."
 
The officer smiled grimly.
 
"She does not understand German?"
 
"Not a word," lied Stewart, glibly.
 
"What is her name?"
 
"Mary."
 
"Her maiden name?"
 
"Mary Agnes Fleming," answered Stewart, repeating the first name that occurred to him, and thanking his stars the next instant that the officer could scarcely be acquainted with the lesser lights of English fiction.
 
"Is that correct?" asked the officer, suddenly turning upon her.
 
Stewart's heart gave a leap of fear; but after a stare at the officer, she turned to her companion.
 
"Was he speaking to me, Tommy?" she asked; and it was only by a heroic effort that Stewart choked back the sudden snort of laughter that rose in his throat.
 
"Yes," he managed to answer; "he wants to know your maiden name."
 
"Why should he wish to know that?"
 
"I give it up; but you'd better tell him."
 
"My maiden name was Mary Agnes Fleming," she said, looking at the officer with evident disapprobation. "Though what concern it is of yours I cannot see."
 
"What does she say?" demanded the officer, and again Stewart translated literally.
 
The officer stood staring intently at both of them, till the lady, with a flash of indignation, turned her back.
 
"Really, Tommy," she said, over her shoulder, "if you do not at once get rid of this brute, I shall never speak to you again!"
 
"He is a policeman, dear," Stewart explained, "and imagines that he is doing his duty. I suppose they do have to be careful in war-time. We must be patient."
 
"I will look at her passport," said the German, suddenly, and held out his hand.
 
"My passport is for both of us," Stewart explained. "Those words 'accompanied by his wife,' make it inclusive."
 
The officer went out into the light again and examined the words with minute attention.
 
"I find no description of her," he said, coming back.
 
"There is none," assented Stewart, impatiently; "but there is a description of me, as you see. The passport adds that I am accompanied by my wife. I tell you that this lady is my wife. That is sufficient."
 
The officer glanced at his companions uncertainly. Then he slowly folded up the passport and handed it back.
 
"When do you depart from Aachen?" he asked.
 
"By the first train for Brussels. I am told that it will arrive in about half an hour."
 
"Very well," said the other. "I regret if I have seemed insistent, but the fact that the lady did not arrive with you appeared to us singular. I will report your explanation to my chief," and he turned on his heel and stalked away, followed by his men.
 
Stewart drew a deep breath.
 
"Well," he began, when he was stopped by a sharp tap from his companion's foot.
 
"Such impudence!" she cried. "I was astonished at your patience, Tommy! You, an American, letting a Prussian policeman intimidate you like that! I am ashamed of you!"
 
Glancing around, Stewart saw the hang-dog Hans hovering in the doorway.
 
"He was a big policeman, my dear," he explained, laughing. "I shouldn't have had much of a chance with him, to say nothing of his two men. If we want to get to Brussels, the safest plan is to answer calmly all the questions the German police can think of. But it is time for us to be going. There will be no reserved seats on this train!"
 
"You are right," agreed his companion; "I am quite ready."
 
So he asked for the bill, paid it, sent Hans up for the luggage, and presently they were walking toward the station, with Hans staggering along behind.
 
Stewart, looking down at his companion, felt more and more elated over the adventure. He had never passed a pleasanter evening—it had just the touch of excitement needed to give it relish. Unfortunately, its end was near; an hour or two in a crowded railway carriage, and—that was all!
 
She glanced up at him and caught his eyes.
 
"What is it, my friend?" she asked. "You appear sad."
 
"I was just thinking," answered Stewart, "that I do not even know your name!"
 
"Speak lower!" she said, quickly. "Or, better still, do not say such things at all. Do not drop the mask for an instant until we are out of Germany."
 
"Very well," Stewart promised. "But once we are across the border, I warn you that I intend to throw the mask away, and that I shall have certain very serious things to say to you."
 
"And I promise to listen patiently," she answered, smiling.
 
At the entrance to the station, they were stopped by a guard, who demanded their tickets. Stewart was about to produce his, when his companion touched him on the arm.
 
"Hasten and get them, Tommy," she said. "I will wait here."
 
And Stewart, as he hurried away, trembled to think how nearly he had blundered. For how could he have explained to the authorities the fact that he was traveling with a book of Cook's circular tickets, while his wife was buying her tickets from station to station?
 
There was a long line of people in front of the ticket-office, and their progress was slow, for two police officers stood at the head of the line and interrogated every applicant for a ticket before they would permit it to be given him. Stewart, as he moved slowly forward, saw two men jerked violently out of the line and placed under arrest; he wondered uncomfortably if the officers had any instructions with regard to him, but, when his turn came, he faced them as unconcernedly as he was able. He explained that he and his wife were going to Brussels, showed his passport, and finally hastened away triumphant with the two precious bits of pasteboard. It seemed to him that the last difficulty had been encountered and overcome, and it was only by an effort that he kept himself from waving the tickets in the air as he rejoined his companion. In another moment, they were past the barrier. Hans was permitted to enter with them, and mounted guard over the luggage.
 
The platform was thronged with a motley and excited crowd, among whom were many officers in long gray coats and trailing swords, evidently on their way to join their commands. They were stalking up and down, with a lofty disregard for base civilians, talking loudly, gesticulating fiercely, and stopping ever and anon to shake hands solemnly. Stewart was watching them with an amusement somewhat too apparent, for his companion suddenly passed her arm through his.
 
"I should like to walk a little," she said. "I have been sitting too long." Then, in a lower tone, as they started along the platform, "It would be more wise not to look at those idiots. They would seek a quarrel with you in an instant if they suspected it was at them you were smiling."
 
"You are right," Stewart agreed; "besides, there is someone else whom I think much better worth looking at! The officers seem to share my opinion," he added, for more than one head was turned as they walked slowly down the platform. "I shall be jealous in a moment!"
 
"Do not talk nonsense! Nothing is so absurd as for a man to make love to his wife in public!"
 
Stewart would have liked to retort that he had, as yet, had mighty few opportunities in private, but he judged it best to save that remark for the other side of the frontier.
 
"Just the same," she rattled on, "it was good of you to write so regularly while you were at Vienna. I am sure your letters helped with my cure. But you have not told me—have you secured our passage?"
 
"I will know when we get to Brussels. Cook is trying to get us an outside room on the Adriatic."
 
"Do we go back to England?"
 
"Not unless we wish to. We can sail from Cherbourg."
 
They had reached the end of the platform, and, as they turned, Stewart found himself face to face with a bearded German who had been close behind them, and who shot a sharp glance at him and his companion before stepping aside with a muttered apology. Not until they had passed him did Stewart remember that he had seen the man before. It was the surly passenger in the crowded compartment on the journey from Cologne.
 
His companion had not seemed to notice the fellow, and went on talking of the voyage home and how glad she would be to get there. Not until they turned again at the farther end, and found the platform for a moment clear around them, did she relax her guard.
 
"That man is a spy," she whispered, quickly.
 
"We are evidently still suspected. What sort of railroad ticket have you?"
 
"A book of Cook's coupons."
 
"I feared as much. You must rid yourself of it—it is quite possible that you will be searched at the frontier. No, no," she added, as Stewart put his hand to his pocket. "Not here! You would be seen—everything would be lost. I will devise a way."
 
Stewart reflected with satisfaction that only a few coupons were left in the book. But why should he be searched? He had thought the danger over; but he began uneasily to suspect that it was just beginning. Well, it was too late to draw back, even had he wished to do so; and most emphatically he did not. He was willing to risk a good deal for another hour of this companionship—and then there was that explanation at the end—his reward——
 
There was a sharp whistle down the line, and the train from Cologne rolled slowly in.
 
"First class," said Stewart to Hans, as the latter picked up the luggage; and then he realized that they would be fortunate if they got into the train at all. The first five carriages were crowded with soldiers; then there were two carriages half-filled with officers, upon whom no one ventured to intrude. The three rear carriages were already crowded with a motley throng of excited civilians, and Stewart had resigned himself to standing up, when Hans shouted, "This way, sir; this way!" and started to run as fast as the heavy suit-cases would permit.
 
Stewart, staring after him, saw that an additional carriage was being pushed up to be attached to the train.
 
"That fellow has more brains than I gave him credit for," he said. "Come along!"
 
Before the car had stopped, Hans, with a disregard of the regulations which proved how excited he was, had wrenched open the door of the first compartment and clambered aboard. By the time they reached it, he had the luggage in the rack and sprang down to the platform with a smile of triumph.
 
"Good work!" said Stewart. "I didn't think you had it in you!" and he dropped a generous tip into the waiting hand. "Come, my dear," and he helped his companion aboard. Hans slammed the door shut after them, touched his cap, and hurried away. "Well, that was luck!" Stewart added, and dropped to the seat beside his companion. "But look out for the deluge in another minute!"
 
She was looking out of the window at the excited mob sweeping along the platform.
 
"The crowd is not coming this way," she said, after a moment. "A line of police is holding it back. I think this carriage is intended for the officers."
 
Stewart groaned.
 
"Then we shall have to get out! Take my advice and don't wait to be asked twice!"
 
"Perhaps they will not need this corner. In any case, we will stay until they put us out. If you are wise, you will forget all the German you know and flourish your passport frequently. Germans are always impressed by a red seal!"
 
But, strangely enough, they were not disturbed. A number of officers approached the carriage, and, after a glance at its inmates, passed on to the other compartments. Stewart, putting his head out of the window, saw that the line of police were still keeping back the crowd.
 
"Really," he said, "this seems too good to be true. It looks as if we were going to have this compartment to ourselves."
 
He turned smilingly to glance at her, and the smile remained frozen on his lips. For her face was deathly pale, her eyes were staring, and she was pressing her hands tight against her heart.
 
"You're not ill?" he asked, genuinely startled.
 
"Only very tired," she answered, controlling her voice with evident difficulty. "I think I shall try to rest a little," and she settled herself more comfortably in her corner. "The journey from Spa quite exhausted me." Then with her lips she formed the words "Be careful!"
 
"All right," said Stewart. "Go to sleep if you can."
 
She gave him a warning glance from under half-closed lids, then laid her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes.
 
Stewart, after a last look along the platform, raised the window half-way to protect his companion from the draft, then dropped into the corner opposite her and got out a cigar and lighted it with studied carelessness—though he was disgusted to see that his hand was trembling. He was tingling all over with the sudden sense of danger—tingling as a soldier tingles as he awaits the command to charge.
 
But what danger could there be? And then he thrilled at a sudden thought. Was this compartment intended as a trap? Had they been guided to it and left alone here in the hope that, thrown off their guard, they would in some way incriminate themselves? Was there an ear glued to some hole in the partition—the ear of a spy crouching in the next compartment?
 
Stewart pulled his hat forward over his eyes as though to shield them from the light. Then he went carefully back over the sequence of events which had led them to this compartment. It was Hans who had brought them to it—and Hans was a spy. It was he who had selected it, who had stood at the door so that they would go no farther. It was he who had slammed the door.
 
Was the door locked? Stewart's hand itched to try the handle; but he did not dare. Someone was perhaps watching as well as listening. But that they should be permitted to enter a carriage reserved for officers—that, on a train so crowded, they should be undisturbed in the possession of a whole compartment—yes, it was proof enough!
 
The station-master's whistle echoed shrilly along the platform, and the train glided slowly away.
 
Darkness had come, and as the train threaded the silent environs of the town, Stewart wondered why the streets seemed so gloomy. Looking again, he understood. Only a few of the street lights were burning. Already the economies of war had begun.
 
The train entered a long tunnel, at whose entrance a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets stood on guard. At regular intervals, the light from the windows flashed upon an armed patrol. Farther on, a deep valley was spanned by a great viaduct, and here again there was a heavy guard. The valley widened, and suddenly as they swept around a curve, Stewart saw a broad plain covered with flaring lights. They were the lights of field-kitchens; and, looking at them, Stewart realized that a mighty army lay encamped here, ready to be hurled against the French frontier.
 
And then he remembered that this was not the French frontier, but the frontier of Belgium. Could the landlady of the Kölner Hof have been mistaken? To make sure, he got out his Baedeker and looked at the map. No; the French frontier lay away to the south. There was no way to reach it from this point save across Belgium. It was at Belgium, then, that the first blow was aimed—Belgium whose neutrality and independence had been guaranteed by all the Powers of Europe!
 
He put the book away and sat gazing thoughtfully out into the night. As far as the eye could reach gleamed the fires of the mighty bivouac. The army itself was invisible in the darkness, for the men had not thought it worth while to put up their shelter tents on so fine a night; but along the track, from time to time, passed a shadowy patrol; once, as the train rolled above a road, Stewart saw that it was packed with transport wagons.
 
Then, suddenly, the train groaned to a stop.
 
"The frontier!" said Stewart to himself, and glanced at his companion, but she, to all appearance, was sleeping peacefully. "We shall be delayed here," he thought, "for the troops to detrain," and he lowered the window and put out his head to watch them do it.
 
The train had stopped beside a platform, and Stewart was astonished at its length. It stretched away and away into the distance, seemingly without end. And it was empty, save for a few guards.
 
The doors behind him were thrown open and the officers sprang out and hurried forward. From the windows in front of him, Stewart could see curious heads projecting; but the forward coaches gave no sign of life. Not a door was opened; not a soldier appeared.
 
"Where are we? What has happened?" asked his companion's voice, and he turned to find her rubbing her eyes sleepily.
 
"We are at the frontier, I suppose," he answered. "No doubt we shall go on as soon as the troops detrain."
 
"I hope they will not be long."
 
"They haven't started yet, but of course—by George!" he added, in another tone, "they aren't getting out! The guards are driving the people out of the cars ahead of us!"
 
The tumult of voices raised in angry protest drew nearer. Stewart could see that the carriages were being cleared, and in no gentle manner. There was no pause for explanation or argument—just a terse order which, if not instantly obeyed, was followed by action. Stewart could not help smiling, for, in that Babel of tongues, he distinguished a lot of unexpurgated American!
 
"There's no use getting into a fight with them," he said, philosophically, as he turned back into the compartment and lifted down his suit-cases. "We might as well get out before we're put out," and he tried to open the door.
 
It was locked.
 
The certainty that they were trapped turned him a little giddy.
 
"Who the devil could have locked this door?" he demanded, shaking the handle savagely.
 
"Seat yourself, Tommy," his companion advised. "Do not excite yourself—and have your passport ready. Perhaps they will not put us off."
 
And then a face, crowned by the ubiquitous spiked helmet, appeared at the window.
 
"You will have to get out," said the man in German, and tried to open the door.
 
Stewart shook his head to show that he didn't understand, and produced his passport.
 
The man waved it impatiently away, and wrenched viciously at the door, purple with rage at finding it locked. Then he shouted savagely at someone farther up the platform.
 
"I have always been told that the Germans were a phlegmatic people," observed Stewart; "but as a matter of fact, they blow up quicker and harder than anybody I ever saw. Look at that fellow, now——"
 
But at that moment a guard came running up, produced a key, and opened the door.
 
"Come, get out!" said the man, with a gesture there was no mistaking, and Stewart, picking up his bags, stepped out upon the platform and helped his companion to alight.
 
"How long will we be detained here?" he asked in English; but the man, with a contemptuous shrug, motioned him to stand back.
 
Looking along the platform, Stewart saw approaching the head of an infantry column. In a moment, the soldiers were clambering into the coaches, with the same mathematical precision he had seen before. But there was something unfamiliar in their appearance; and, looking more closely, Stewart saw that their spiked helmets were covered with gray cloth, and that not a button or bit of gilt glittered anywhere on the gray-green field uniforms. Wonderful forethought, he told himself. By night these troops would be quite invisible; by day they would be merged indistinguishably with the brown soil of the fields, the gray trunks of trees, the green of hedges.
 
The train rolled slowly out of the station, and Stewart saw that on the track beyond there was another, also loaded with troops. In a moment, it started westward after the first; and beyond it a third train lay revealed.
 
Stewart, glancing at his companion, was startled by the whiteness of her face, the steely glitter of her eyes.
 
"It looks like a regular invasion," he said. "But let us find out what's going to happen to us. We can't stand here all night. Good heavens—what is that?"
 
From the air above them came the sudden savage whirr of a powerful engine, and, looking up, they saw a giant shape sweep across the sky. It was gone in an instant.
 
"A Zeppelin!" said Stewart, and felt within himself a thrill of wonder and exultation. Oh, this would be a great war! It would be like no other ever seen upon this earth. It would be fought in the air, as well as on the land; in the depths of the ocean, as well as on its surface. At last all theories were to be put to the supreme test!
 
"You will come with me," said the man in the helmet, and Stewart, with a nod, picked up his grips again before he remembered that he was supposed to be ignorant of German.
 
"Did you say there was another train?" he asked. "Shall we be able to get away?"
 
The man shook his head and led the way along the platform, without glancing to the right or left. As they passed the bare little station, they saw that it was jammed to the doors with men and women and children, mixed in an indiscriminate mass, and evidently most uncomfortable. But their guide led them past it without stopping, and Stewart breathed a sigh of relief. Anything would be better than to be thrust into that crowd!
 
Again he had cause to wonder at the length of that interminable platform; but at last, near its farther end, their guide stopped before a small, square structure, whose use Stewart could not even guess, and flung open the door.
 
"You will enter here," he said.
 
"But look here," Stewart protested, "we are American citizens. You have no right——"
 
The man signed to them to hurry. There was something in the gesture which stopped the words on Stewart's lips.
 
"Oh, damn the fool!" he growled, swallowing hard. "Come along, my dear; there's no use to argue," and, bending his head at the low door, he stepped inside.
 
In an instant, the door was slammed shut, and the snap of a lock told them that they were prisoners.
CHAPTER VII IN THE TRAP
 As Stewart set down his bags, still swearing softly to himself, he heard behind him the sound of a stifled sob.
 
"There! there!" he said. "We'll soon be all right!" and as he turned swiftly and reached out his arms to grope for her, it seemed to him that she walked right into them.
 
"Oh, oh!" she moaned, and pressed close against him. "What will they do to us? Why have they placed us here?" And then he felt her lips against his ear. "Be careful!" she whispered in the merest breath. "There is an open window!"
 
Stewart's heart was thrilling. What a woman! What an actress! Well, he would prove that he, too, could play a part.
 
"They will do nothing to us, dear," he answered, patting her shoulder. "They will not dare to harm us! Remember, we are Americans!"
 
"But—but why should they place us here?"
 
"I don't know—I suppose they have to be careful. I'll appeal to our ambassador in the morning. He'll soon bring them to their senses. So don't worry!"
 
"But it is so dark!" she complained. "And I am so tired. Can we not seat ourselves somewhere?"
 
"We can sit on our bags," said Stewart. "Wait!" In a moment he had found them and placed them one upon the other. "There you are. Now let us see what sort of a place we've come to."
 
He got out his match-box and struck a light. The first flare almost blinded him; then, holding the match above his head, he saw they were in a brick cubicle, about twenty feet square. There was a single small window, without glass but heavily barred. The place was empty, save for a pile of barrels against one end.
 
"It's a store-house of some kind," he said, and then he sniffed sharply. "Gasoline! I'd better not strike any more matches."
 
He sat down beside her and for some moments they were silent. Almost unconsciously, his arm found its way about her waist. She did not draw away.
 
"Do you suppose they will keep us here all night?" she asked, at last.
 
"Heaven knows! They seem capable of any folly!"
 
And then again he felt her lips against his ear.
 
"We must destroy your ticket," she breathed. "Can you find it in the dark?"
 
"I think so." He fumbled in an inside pocket and drew it out. "Here it is."
 
Her groping hand found his and took the ticket.
 
"Now talk to me," she said.
 
Stewart talked at random, wondering how she intended to destroy the ticket. Once he fancied he heard the sound of soft tearing; and once, when she spoke in answer to a question, her voice seemed strange and muffled.
 
"It is done," she whispered at last. "Place these in your pocket and continue talking."
 
Her groping hand touched his and he found himself grasping two minute objects whose nature he could not guess, until, feeling them carefully, he found them to be the small wire staples which had held the coupons of the ticket together. He slipped them into his waistcoat pocket; and then, as he began to tell her about the women from Philadelphia and the journey from Cologne, he was conscious that she was no longer beside him. But at the end of a moment she was back again.
 
"That girl was perfectly right," she said. "Women are very silly to try to travel about Europe without a man as escort. Consider how I should feel at this moment if I did not have you!"
 
But in spite of themselves, the conversation lagged; and they finally sat silent.
 
How strange a thing was chance, Stewart pondered. Here was he who, until to-day, had seen his life stretching before him ordered and prosaic, cast suddenly into the midst of strange adventure. Here was this girl, whom he had known for only a few hours and yet seemed to have known for years—whom he certainly knew better than he had ever known any other woman. There was Bloem—he had been cast into adventure, too. Was he outside somewhere, among all those thousands, gazing up at the stars and wondering at Fate? And the thousands themselves—the millions mustering at this moment into the armies of Europe—to what tragic adventure were they being hurried!
 
A quick step came along the platform and stopped at the door; there was the snap of a lock, and the door swung open.
 
"You will come out," said a voice in English.
 
Against the lights of the station, Stewart saw outlined the figure of a man in uniform. He rose wearily.
 
"Come, dear," he said, and helped her to her feet; "it seems we are to go somewhere else." Then he looked down at the heavy bags. "I can't carry those things all over creation," he said; "what's more, I won't."
 
"I will attend to that," said the stranger, and put a whistle to his lips and blew a shrill blast. Two men came running up. "You will take those bags," he ordered. "Follow me," he added to Stewart.
 
They followed him along the platform, crossed the track to another, and came at last to a great empty shed with a low table running along one side. The men placed the bags upon this table and withdrew.
 
"I shall have to search them," said the officer. "Are they locked?"
 
He stood in the glare of a lamp hanging from the rafters, and for the first time, Stewart saw his face. The man smiled at his start of surprise.
 
"I see you recognize me," he said. "Yes—I was in your compartment coming from Cologne. We will speak of that later. Are your bags locked?"
 
"No," said Stewart.
 
He watched with affected listlessness as the officer undid the straps and raised the lids. But his mind was very busy. Had he said anything during that ride from Cologne which he would now have reason to regret? Had he intimated that he was unmarried? He struggled to recall the conversation, sentence by sentence, but could remember nothing that was actually incriminating. And yet, in mentioning his intended stop at Aix-la-Chapelle, he had not added that he was to meet his wife there, and he had made a tentative arrangement to see Miss Field again in Brussels. The talk, in other words, had been carried on from the angle of a bachelor with no one to think of but himself, and not from that of a married man with a wife to consider.
 
It was certainly unfortunate that the man who had happened to overhear that conversation should be the one detailed here to examine his luggage. How well did he know English? Was he acute enough to catch the implications of the conversation, or would a disregard of one's wife seem natural to his Teutonic mind? Stewart glanced at him covertly; and then his attention was suddenly caught and held by the extreme care with which the man examined the contents of the bags.
 
He shook out each garment, put his hand in every pocket, examined the linings with his finger-tips, ripped open one where he detected some unusual thickness only to discover a strip of reënforcement, opened and read carefully every letter and paper, turned the Baedeker page by page to be sure that nothing lay between them. He paused over the satin shoes and stockings, but put them down finally without comment. At last the bags were empty, and, taking up his knife, he proceeded to rip open the linen linings and look under them. Then, with equal care, he returned each article to its place, examining it a second time with the same intent scrutiny.
 
All this took time, and long before it was over, Stewart and his companion had dropped upon a bench which ran along the wall opposite the table. Stewart was so weary that he began to feel that nothing mattered very much, and he could see that the girl also was deadly tired. But at last the search was finished and the bags closed and strapped.
 
"I should like to see the small bag which Madame carries on her arm," said the officer, and, without a word, the girl held it out to him.
 
He examined its contents with a minuteness almost microscopic. Nothing was too small, too unimportant, to escape the closest attention. Stewart, marveling at this exhibition of German thoroughness, watched him through half-closed eyes, his heart beating a little faster. Would he find some clew, some evidence of treachery?
 
There were some handkerchiefs in the bag, and some small toilet articles; a cake of soap in a case, a box of powder, a small purse containing some gold and silver, a postcard, two or three letters, and some trivial odds and ends such as every woman carries about with her. The searcher unfolded each of the handkerchiefs and held it against the light, he cut the cake of soap into minute fragments; he emptied the box of powder and ran an inquiring finger through its contents; he turned out the purse and looked at every coin it contained; then he sat down and read slowly and gravely the postcard and each of the letters and examined their postmarks, and finally he took one of the closely-written sheets, mounted on his chair, and held the sheet close against the chimney of the lamp until it was smoking with the heat, examining it with minute attention as though he rather expected to make some interesting discovery. As a finish to his researches, he ripped open the lining of the bag and turned it inside out.
 
"Where did you buy this bag, madame?" he asked.
 
"In Paris, a month ago."
 
"These handkerchiefs are also French."
 
"Certainly. French handkerchiefs are the best in the world."
 
He compressed his lips and looked at her.
 
"And that is a French hat," he went on.
 
"Good heavens!" cried the girl. "One would think I was passing the customs at New York. Certainly it is French. So is my gown—so are my stockings—so is my underwear. For what else does an American woman come abroad?"
 
He looked at her shoes. She saw his glance and understood it.
 
"No; my shoes are American. The French do not know how to make shoes."
 
"But the slippers are French."
 
"Which slippers?"
 
"The ones in your husband's bag."
 
She turned laughingly to Stewart.
 
"Have you been carrying a pair of my slippers all around Europe, Tommy?" she asked. "How did that happen?"
 
"I don't know. I packed in rather a hurry," answered Stewart, sheepishly.
 
"Where is the remainder of your baggage, madame?" asked the officer.
 
"At Brussels—at least, I hope so. I sent it there direct from Spa."
 
"Why did you do that?"
 
"In order to avoid the examination at the frontier."
 
"Why did not you yourself go direct to Brussels?"
 
"I wished to see my husband. I had not seen him for almost a month," and she cast Stewart a fond smile.
 
"Have you been recently married?"
 
"We have been married four years," the girl informed him, with dignity.
 
Stewart started to give some additional information about the family, but restrained himself.
 
The inspector looked at them both keenly for a moment, scratching his bearded chin reflectively. Then he took a rapid turn up and down the shed, his brow furrowed in thought.
 
"I shall have to ask you both to disrobe," he said, at last, and as Stewart started to his feet in hot protest, he added, quickly, "I have a woman who will disrobe Madame."
 
"But this is an outrage!" protested Stewart, his face crimson. "This lady is my wife—I won't stand by and see her insulted. I warn you that you are making a serious mistake."
 
"She shall not be insulted. Besides, it is necessary."
 
"I don't see it."
 
"That is for me to decide," said the other bluntly, and he put his whistle to his lips and blew two blasts.
 
A door at the farther end of the shed opened and a woman entered. She was a matronly creature with a kind face, and she smiled encouragingly at the shrinking girl.
 
"Frau Ritter," said the officer in German, "you will take this lady into the office and disrobe her. Bring her clothing to me here—all of it."
 
Again Stewart started to protest, but the officer silenced him with a gesture.
 
"It is useless to attempt resistance," he said, sharply. "I must do my duty—by force if necessary. It will be much wiser to obey quietly."
 
The girl rose to her feet, evidently reassured by the benevolent appearance of the woman.
 
"Do not worry, Tommy," she said. "It will be all right. It is of no use to argue with these people. There is nothing to do but submit."
 
"So it seems," Stewart muttered, and watched her until she disappeared through the door.
 
"Now, sir," said the officer, sharply, "your clothes."
 
Crimson with anger and humiliation, Stewart handed them over piece by piece, saw pockets turned out, linings loosened here and there, the heels of his shoes examined, his fountain-pen unscrewed and emptied of its ink. At last he stood naked under the flaring light, feeling helpless as a baby.
 
"Well, I hope you are satisfied," he said, vindictively.
 
With a curt nod, the officer handed him back his underwear.
 
"I will keep these for the moment," he said, indicating the little pile of things taken from the pockets. "You may dress. Your clothes, at least, are American!"
 
As he spoke, the woman entered from the farther door, with a bundle of clothing in her arms. Stewart turned hastily away, struggling into his trousers as rapidly as he could, and cursing the careless immodesty of these people. Sullenly he laced his shoes, and put on his collar, noting wrathfully that it was soiled. He kept his back to the man at the table—he felt that it would be indecent to watch him scrutinizing those intimate articles of apparel.
 
"You have examined her hair?" he heard the man ask.
 
"Yes, Excellency."
 
"Very well; you may take these back."
 
Not until he heard the door close behind her did Stewart turn around. The officer was lighting a cigarette. The careless unconcern of the act added new fuel to the American's wrath.
 
"Perhaps you will tell me the meaning of all this?" he demanded. "Why should my wife and I be compelled to submit to these indignities?"
 
"We are looking for a spy," replied the other imperturbably, and addressed himself to an examination of the things he had taken from Stewart's pockets—his penknife, his watch, the contents of his purse, the papers in his pocket-book. He even placed a meditative finger for an instant on the two tiny metal clips which had come from the Cook ticket. But to reconstruct their use was evidently too great a task even for a German police agent, for he passed on almost at once to something else. "Very good," he said at last, pushed the pile toward its owner, and opened the passport, which he had laid to one side.
 
"That passport will tell you that I am not a spy," said Stewart, putting his things angrily back into his pockets. "That, it seems to me, should be sufficient."
 
"As far as you are concerned, it is entirely sufficient," said the other. "One can see at a glance that you are an American. But the appearance of Madame is distinctly French."
 
"Americans are of every race," Stewart pointed out. "I have seen many who look far more German than you do."
 
"That is true; but it so happens that the spy we are looking for is a woman. I cannot tell you more, except that it is imperative she does not escape."
 
"And you suspect my wife?" Stewart demanded. "But that is absurd!"
 
He was proud of the fact that he had managed to maintain unaltered his expression of virtuous indignation, for a sudden chill had run down his spine at the other's careless words. Evidently the situation was far more dangerous than he had suspected! Then he was conscious that his hands were trembling slightly, and thrust them quickly into his pockets.
 
"The fact that she joined you at Aachen seemed most suspicious," the inspector pointed out. "I do not remember that you mentioned her during your conversation with the ladies in the train."
 
"Certainly not. Why should I have mentioned her?"
 
"There was perhaps no reason for doing so," the inspector admitted. "Nevertheless, it seemed to us unusual that she should have come back from Spa to Aachen to meet you, when she might, so much more conveniently, have gone direct to Brussels and awaited you there."
 
"She has explained why we made that arrangement."
 
"Yes," and through half-closed eyes he watched the smoke from his cigarette circle upwards toward the lamp. "Conjugal affection—most admirable, I am sure! It is unfortunate that Madame's appearance should answer so closely to that of the woman for whom we are searching. It was also unfortunate that you should have met at the Kölner Hof. That hotel has not a good reputation—it is frequented by too many French whose business is not quite clear to us. How did it happen that you went there?"
 
"Why," retorted Stewart hotly, glad of the chance to return one of the many blows which had been rained upon him, "one of your own men recommended it."
 
"One of my own men? I do not understand," and the officer looked at him curiously.
 
"At least one of the police. He came to me at the Hotel Continental at Cologne to examine my passport. He asked me where I was going from Cologne, and I told him to Aix-la-Chapelle. He asked at which hotel I was going to stay, and I said I did not know. He said he would like to have that information for his report, and added that the Kölner Hof was near the station and very clean and comfortable. I certainly found it so."
 
The officer was listening with peculiar intentness.
 
"Why were you not at the station to meet your wife?" he asked.
 
"I did not know when she would arrive; I was told that the trains were all running irregularly," answered Stewart, prouder of his ability to lie well and quickly than he had ever been of anything else in his life.
 
"But how did she know at which hotel to find you?" inquired the officer, and negligently flipped the ash from his cigarette.
 
Stewart distinctly felt his heart turn over as he saw the abyss at his feet. How would she have known? How could she have known? What would he have done if he had really had a wife waiting at Spa? These questions flashed through his head like lightning.
 
"Why, I telegraphed her, of course," he said; "and to make assurance doubly sure, I sent her a postcard." And then his heart fell again, for he realized that the police had only to wire to Cologne to prove that no such message had been filed there.
 
But the officer tossed away his cigarette with a little gesture of satisfaction.
 
"It was well you took the latter precaution, Mr. Stewart," he said, and Stewart detected a subtle change in his tone—it was less cold, more friendly. "The wires were closed last night to any but official business, and your message could not possibly have got through. I am surprised that it was accepted."
 
"I gave it to the porter at the hotel," Stewart explained. "Perhaps it wasn't accepted, and he just kept the money."
 
"That may be. But your postcard got through, as you no doubt know. It evidently caught the night mail and was delivered to Madame this morning."
 
"Really," stammered Stewart, wondering desperately if this was another trap, "I didn't know—I didn't think to ask——"
 
"Luckily Madame brought it with her in her hand-bag," explained the other. "It offers a convincing confirmation of your story—the more convincing perhaps since you seem surprised that she preserved it. Ah, here she is now," and he arose as the door opened and the girl came in. "Will you not sit down, madame?" he went on, courteously. "I pray that both of you will accept my sincere apologies for the inconvenience I have caused you. Believe me, it was one of war's necessities."
 
The girl glanced at the speaker curiously, his tone was so warm, so full of friendship; then she glanced at Stewart——
 
And Stewart, catching that glance, was suddenly conscious that his mouth was open and his eyes staring and his whole attitude that of a man struck dumb by astonishment. Hastily he bent over to re-tie a shoestring. But really, he told himself, he could not be blamed for being disconcerted—anybody would be disconcerted to be told suddenly that his most desperate lie was true! But how could it be true? How could there be any such postcard as the German had described? Was it just another trap?
 
"We understand, of course, that you were merely doing your duty," the girl's voice was saying; "what seemed unfair was that we should be the victims. Do I understand that—that you no longer suspect us?"
 
"Absolutely not; and I apologize for my suspicions."
 
"Then we are at liberty to proceed?"
 
"You cannot in any event proceed to-night. I will pass you in the morning. And I hope you will not think that any discourtesy was intended to you as Americans. Germany is most anxious to retain the good-will of America. It will mean much to us in this struggle."
 
"Most Americans are rather sentimental over Alsace-Lorraine," said Stewart, who had recovered his composure, and he fished for a cigar and offered one to the officer, who accepted it with a bow of thanks.
 
"That is because they do not understand," said the other, quickly. "Alsace and Lorraine belong of right to Germany. Of that there can be no question."
 
"But haven't you been rather harsh with them?"
 
"We have not been harsh enough. Had we done our duty, we would have stamped out without mercy the treason which is still rampant in many parts of those provinces. Instead, we have hesitated, we have temporized—and now, too late, we realize our mistake. The spy for whom we are searching at this moment comes from Strassburg."
 
Stewart started at the words; but the girl threw back her head and burst into delighted laughter.
 
"So you took us for spies!" she cried. "What a tale to tell, Tommy, when we get home!"
 
"There is but one spy, madame," said the officer; "a woman young and beautiful like yourself—accomplished, distinguished, a great linguist, a fine musician, of good family, and moving in the highest society in Alsace. She was on terms of intimacy with many of our officers; they did not hesitate to talk freely to her. Some of them, fascinated by her wit and beauty and wishing to prove their own importance, told her things which they had no right to tell. More than that, at the last moment she succeeded in getting possession for a time of certain confidential documents. But she had gone too far—she was suspected—she fled—and she has not yet been captured. But she cannot escape—we cannot permit her to escape. We know that she is still somewhere in Germany, and we have made it impossible for her to pass the frontier. A person who knows her is to be stationed at every post, and no woman will be permitted to pass until he has seen her. The man to be stationed here will arrive from Strassburg in an hour. As a final precaution, madame," he added, smiling, "and because my orders are most precise and stringent, I shall ask you and your husband to remain here at Herbesthal until morning. As I have said, you could not, in any event, go on to-night, for the frontier is closed. In the morning, I will ask my man from Strassburg to look at you, and will then provide you with a safe-conduct, and see that every possible facility is given you to get safely across the frontier."
 
"Thank you," she said; "you are most kind. That is why you are keeping all those people shut up in the station?"
 
"Yes, madame. They cannot pass until my man has seen them."
 
"But you are not searching them?"
 
"No; with most of them, the detention is a mere matter of obeying orders—one can tell their nationality at a glance. But to look at you, madame, I should never have supposed you to be an American—I should have supposed you to be French."
 
"My grandmother was French," explained the girl, composedly, "and I am said to resemble her very closely. I must also warn you that my sympathies are French."
 
The officer shrugged his shoulders with a smile.
 
"That is a great misfortune. Perhaps when you see how our army fights, we may claim some of your sympathy—or, at least, your admiration."
 
"It will fight well, then?"
 
"It will fight so well—it will prove so irresistible—that our General Staff has been able to prepare in advance the schedule for the entire campaign. This is the first of August. On the fifth we shall capture Lille, on the ninth we shall cross the Marne, and on the eleventh we shall enter Paris. On the evening of the twelfth, the Emperor will dine the General Staff at the Ritz."
 
Stewart stared in astonishment, not knowing whether to laugh or to be impressed. But there was no shadow of a smile on the bearded face of the speaker.
 
"You are not in earnest!" Stewart protested.
 
"Thoroughly in earnest. We know where we shall be at every hour of every day. There are at present living in France many Germans who are reservists in our army. Not one of these has been required to return to Germany. On the contrary, each of them has been instructed to report at a point near his place of residence at a certain hour of a certain day, where he will find his regiment awaiting him. For example, all German reservists living at Lille, or in the neighborhood, will report at noon of Wednesday next in the Place de la République in front of the prefecture, where the German administration will have been installed during the morning."
 
Stewart opened his lips to say something, but no words came. He felt intimidated and overborne.
 
But it was not at Stewart the officer was looking so triumphantly, it was at the girl. Perhaps he also, yielding to a subtle fascination, was telling things he had no right to tell in order to prove his importance!
 
The girl returned his gaze with a look of astonishment and admiration.
 
"How wonderful!" she breathed. "And it is really true?"
 
"True in every detail, madame."
 
"But this Lille of which you have spoken—is it a fortress?"
 
"A great fortress, madame."
 
"Will it not resist?"
 
"Not for long—perhaps not at all. If it does resist, it will fall like a house of cards. The whole world will be astonished, madame, when it learns the details of that action. We have a great surprise in store for our enemies!"
 
Stewart, glancing at his companion, noted with alarm the flash of excitement in her eyes. Would she push her questioning too far—would she be indiscreet; but the next instant he was reassured.
 
"It is most fascinating,—this puzzle!" she laughed. "I shall watch the papers for the fall of Lille. But I am very ignorant—I do not even know where Lille is."
 
"It is in the northwest corner of France, madame, just south of the Belgian frontier."
 
The girl looked at him perplexedly.
 
"But how can you reach it," she asked, slowly, "without crossing Belgium?"
 
"We cannot reach it without crossing Belgium."
 
From the expression of her face, she might have been a child shyly interrogating an indulgent senior.
 
"I know I am stupid," she faltered, "but it seems to me I have read somewhere—perhaps in Baedeker—that all the Powers had agreed that Belgium should always be a neutral country."
 
"So they did—Germany as well as the others. But such agreements are mere scraps of paper. The first blast of war blows them away. France has built along her eastern border a great chain of forts which are almost impregnable. Therefore it is necessary for us to strike her from the north through Belgium. Regretfully, but none the less firmly, we have warned Belgium to stand aside."
 
"Will she stand aside?"
 
The officer shrugged his shoulders.
 
"She must, or risk annihilation. She will not dare oppose us. If she does, we shall crush her into the dust. She will belong to us, and we will take her. Moreover, we shall not repeat the mistake we made in Alsace-Lorraine. There will be no treason in Belgium!"
 
Stewart felt a little shiver of disgust sweep over him. So this was the German attitude—treaties, solemn agreements, these were merely "scraps of paper" not worth a second thought; a small nation had no rights worth considering, since it lacked the power to defend them. Should it try to do so, it would "risk annihilation!"
 
He did not feel that he could trust himself to talk any longer, and rose suddenly to his feet.
 
"What are we going to do to-night?" he asked. "Not sit here in this shed, surely!"
 
"Certainly not," and the officer rose too. "I have secured a lodging for you with the woman who searched Madame. You will find it clean and comfortable, though by no means luxurious."
 
"That is very kind of you," said Stewart, with a memory of the rabble he had seen crowded into the waiting-room. And then he looked at his luggage. "I hope it isn't far," he added. "I've carried those bags about a thousand miles to-day."
 
"It is but a step—but I will have a man carry your bags. Here is your passport, sir, and again permit me to assure you of my regret. You also, madame!" and he bowed ceremoniously above her fingers.
 
Three minutes later, Stewart and his companion were walking down the platform beside the pleasant-faced woman, who babbled away amiably in German, while a porter followed with the bags. As they passed the station, they could see that it was still jammed with a motley crowd, while a guard of soldiers thrown around it prevented anyone leaving or entering.
 
"How fortunate that we have escaped that!" said Stewart. "Even at the price of being searched!"
 
"This way, sir," said the woman, in German, and motioned off into the darkness to the right.
 
They made their way across a net-work of tracks, which seemed to Stewart strangely complicated and extensive for a small frontier station, and then emerged into a narrow, crooked street, bordered by mean little houses. In front of one of these the woman stopped and unlocked the door with an enormous key. The porter set the bags inside, received his tip, and withdrew, while their hostess struck a match and lighted a candle, disclosing a narrow hall running from the front door back through the house.
 
"You will sleep here, sir," she said, and opened a door to the left.
 
They stepped through, in obedience to her gesture, and found themselves in a fair-sized room, poorly furnished and a little musty from disuse, but evidently clean. Their hostess hastened to open the window and to light another candle. Then she brought in Stewart's bags.
 
"You will find water there," and she pointed to the pitcher on the wash-stand. "I cannot give you hot water to-night—there is no fire. Will these towels be sufficient? Yes? Is there anything else? No? Then good-night, sir, and you also, my lady."
 
"Good-night," they answered; and for a moment after the door closed, stood staring at it as though hypnotized.
 
Then the girl stepped to the window and pulled together the curtains of white cotton. As she turned back into the room, Stewart saw that her face was livid.
 
His eyes asked the question which he did not dare speak aloud.
 
She drew him back into the corner and put her lips close against his ear.
 
"There is a guard outside," she whispered. "We must be very careful. We are prisoners still."
 
As Stewart stood staring, she took off her hat and tossed it on a chair.
 
"How tired I am!" she said, yawning heavily, and turning back to the window, she began to take down her hair.
CHAPTER VIII PRESTO! CHANGE!
 The vision of that dark hair rippling down as she drew out pin after pin held Stewart entranced. And the curve of her uplifted arms was also a thing to be remembered! But what was it she proposed to do? Surely——
 
"If you are going to wash, you would better do it, Tommy," she said, calmly. "I shall be wanting to in a minute."
 
Mechanically, Stewart slipped out of his coat, undid his tie, took off his collar, pulled up his sleeves, and fell to. He was obsessed by a feeling of unreality which even the cold water did not dissipate. It couldn't be true—all this——
 
"I wish you would hurry, Tommy," said a voice behind him. "I am waiting for you to unhook my bodice."
 
Stewart started round as though stung by an adder. His companion's hair fell in beautiful dark waves about her shoulders, and he could see that her bodice was loosened.
 
"There are two hooks I cannot reach," she explained, in the most matter-of-fact tone. "I should think you would know that by this time!"
 
"Oh, so it's that bodice!" said Stewart, and dried his hands vigorously, resolved to play the game to the end, whatever it might be. "All right," and as she turned her back toward him, he began gingerly searching for the hooks.
 
"Come a little this way," she said; "you can see better," and, glancing up, Stewart suddenly understood.
 
They were standing so that their shadows fell upon the curtain. The comedy was being played for the benefit of the guard in the street outside.
 
The discovery that it was a comedy gave him back all his aplomb, and he found the hooks and disengaged them with a dexterity which no real husband could have improved upon.
 
"There," he said; "though why any woman should wear a gown so fashioned that she can neither dress nor undress herself passes my comprehension. Why not put the hooks in front?"
 
"And spoil the effect? Impossible! The hooks must be in the back," and still standing before the window, she slowly drew her bodice off.
 
Stewart had seen the arms of many women, but never a pair so rounded and graceful and beautiful as those at this moment disclosed to him. Admirable too was the way in which the head was set upon the lovely neck, and the way the neck itself merged into the shoulders—the masterpiece of a great artist, so he told himself.
 
"I wonder if there is a shutter to that window?" she asked, suddenly, starting round toward it. "If there is, you would better close it. Somebody might pass—besides, I do not care to sleep on the ground-floor of a strange house in a strange town, with an open window overlooking the street!"
 
"I'll see," said Stewart, and pulling back the curtains, stuck out his head. "Yes—there's a shutter—a heavy wooden one." He pulled it shut and pushed its bolt into place. "There; now you're safe!"
 
She motioned him quickly to lower the window, and this he did as noiselessly as possible.
 
"Was there anyone outside?" she asked, in a low tone.
 
He shook his head. The narrow street upon which the window opened had seemed quite deserted—but the shadows were very deep.
 
"I wish you would open the bags," she said, in her natural voice. "I shall have to improvise a night-dress of some sort."
 
Although he knew quite well that the words had been uttered for foreign consumption, as it were, Stewart found that his fingers were trembling as he undid the straps and threw back the lids, for he was quite unable to guess what would be the end of this strange adventure or to what desperate straits they might be driven by the pressure of circumstance.
 
"There you are," he said, and sat down and watched her.
 
She knelt on the floor beside the bags and turned over their contents thoughtfully, laying to one side a soft outing shirt, a traveling cap, a lounging coat, a pipe and pouch of tobacco, a handful of cigars, a pair of trousers, a belt, three handkerchiefs, a pair of scissors. She paused for a long time over a pair of Stewart's shoes, but finally put them back with a shake of the head.
 
"No," said Stewart, "I agree with you. Shoes are not necessary to a sleeping costume. But then neither is a pipe."
 
She laughed.
 
"You will find that the pipe is very necessary," she said, and rising briskly, stepped to the wash-stand and gave face and hands and arms a scrubbing so vigorous that she emerged, as it seemed to Stewart, more radiant than ever. Then she glanced into the pitcher with an exclamation of dismay. "There! I have used all the water! I wonder if our landlady has gone to bed?"
 
Catching up the pitcher, she crossed rapidly to the door and opened it. There was no one there, and Stewart, following with the candle, saw that the hall was empty. They stood for a moment listening, but not a sound disturbed the stillness of the house.
 
The girl motioned him back into the room and closed the door softly. Then, replacing the pitcher gently, she caught up a pile of Stewart's socks and stuffed them tightly under the door. Finally she set a chair snugly against it—for there was no lock—and turned to Stewart with a little sigh of relief.
 
"There," she said in a low tone; "no one can see our light nor overhear us, if we are careful. Perhaps they really do not suspect us—but we must take no chances. What hour have you?"
 
Stewart glanced at his watch.
 
"It is almost midnight."
 
"There is no time to lose. We must make our plans. Sit here beside me," and she sat down in one corner against the wall. "We must not waste our candle," she added. "Bring it with you, and we will blow it out until we need it again."
 
Stewart sat down beside her, placed the candle on the floor and leaned forward and blew it out.
 
For a moment they sat so, quite still, then Stewart felt a hand touch his. He seized it and held it close.
 
"I am very unhappy, my friend," she said, softly, "to have involved you in all this."
 
"Why, I am having the time of my life!" Stewart protested.
 
"If I had foreseen what was to happen," she went on, "I should never have asked you to assist me. I would have found some other way."
 
"The deuce you would! Then I'm glad you didn't foresee it."
 
"It is good of you to say so; but you must not involve yourself further."
 
"What do you mean by that?"
 
"I am in great danger. It is absolutely necessary that I escape. I cannot remain till morning. I cannot face that inspection. I should be denounced."
 
"Yes," agreed Stewart; "that's clear enough."
 
"Well, I will escape alone. When the police come for us, they will find only you."
 
"And will probably back me against a wall and shoot me out of hand."
 
"Oh, no; they will be rough and angry, but they will not dare to harm you. They know that you are an American—they cannot possibly suspect you of being a spy. You can prove the truth of all your statements."
 
"Not quite all," Stewart corrected.
 
"Of your statements, at least, so far as they concern yourself."
 
"Yes—but I will have considerable difficulty explaining my connection with you."
 
"Oh, no," said the girl, in a low voice; "that can be easily explained."
 
"How?"
 
"You will say," she answered, her voice lower still, "that you met me at the Kölner Hof, that I made advances, that you found me attractive, and that I readily agreed to accompany you to Paris. You can say that it was I who suggested altering your passport—that you saw no harm in it—and that you knew absolutely nothing about me except that I was a—a loose woman."
 
Stewart's lips were trembling so that it was a moment before he could control his voice.
 
"And do you really think I would say that, little comrade?" he asked, hoarsely. "Do you really think anything on earth could compel me to say that!"
 
He heard the quick intake of her breath; then she raised his hand to her cheek and he felt the hot tears upon it.
 
"Don't you understand," he went on earnestly, "that we are in this together to the end—the very end? I know I'm not of much use, but I am not such a coward as you seem to think me, and——"
 
She stopped him with a quick pressure of the fingers.
 
"Don't!" she breathed. "You are cruel!"
 
"Not half so cruel as you were a moment ago," he retorted.
 
"Forgive me, my friend," she pleaded, and moved a little nearer. "I did not know—I am but a girl—I thought perhaps you would wish to be rid of me."
 
"I don't want ever to be rid of you," began Stewart, brokenly, drawing her closer. "I don't want ever——"
 
She yielded for an instant to his arm; for the fraction of an instant her head was upon his breast; then she drew herself away, and silenced him with a tap upon the lips.
 
"Not now!" she said, and her voice, too, was hoarse. "All we must think of now is to escape. Afterwards, perhaps——"
 
"I shall hold you to that!" said Stewart, and released her.
 
But again for an instant she bent close.
 
"You are a good man!" she whispered.
 
"Oh, no!" Stewart protested, though he was shaken by the words. "No better than the average!"
 
And then he suddenly found himself unable to go on, and there was a moment's silence. When he spoke again, he had regained his self-control.
 
"Have you a plan?" he asked.
 
"Yes," she said, and drew a quick breath, as of one shaking away some weakness. "The first part is that you should sit quite still until I tell you to light the candle."
 
"But what——"
 
"A good soldier does not ask questions."
 
"All right, general," said Stewart, and settled back against the wall, completely, ineffably happy. Never before, he told himself, had he known what happiness was; never before had the mere joy of living surged through his veins as it was doing now. Little comrade! But what was she doing?
 
He could hear her moving softly about the room; he could hear the rustle of what he took to be the bed-clothes; then the bed creaked as she sat down upon it. What was she doing? Why should she work in the dark, alone, without asking him to help? Was it because he could not help—was of so little use——
 
"You may light the candle now, my friend," she said, in a low voice.
 
Stewart had a match ready—had had it ready for long minutes!—and in a trice the wick was alight and the flame shot up clear and steady.
 
After one glance, he sprang in amazement to his feet, for there before him stood a youth—the handsomest he had ever seen—Peter Pan come to earth again!—his hand at the visor of his traveling-cap in mock salute.
 
"Well!" said Stewart, after a moment of amazed and delighted silence. "I believe you are a witch! Let me look at you!" and he caught up the candle and held it above his head.
 
The face upturned to his flamed crimson at the wonder and admiration in his eyes, but the dimple was sparkling at the corner of her mouth as she turned obediently before him and stepped slowly across the room. There is at the heart of every woman, however virginal and innocent, a subtle delight in knowing that men find her beautiful, and there could be no question of what Stewart thought at this moment.
 
At last she came to a stop facing him.
 
"Well?" she asked. "Will I do?"
 
"Will you do?" Stewart echoed, and Meredith's phrase recurred to him—"an imp in porcelain"—how perfectly it described her! "You are entirely, absolutely, impeccably—oh, I haven't adjectives enough! Only I wish I had a hundred candles instead of one!"
 
"But the clothes," she said, and looked doubtfully down at them. "Do I look like a boy?"
 
"Not in the least!" he answered, promptly.
 
Her face fell.
 
"But then——"
 
"Perhaps it is just because I know you're not one," he reassured her. "Let me see if I can improve matters. The trousers are too large, especially about the waist. They seem in danger of—hum!" and indeed she was clutching them desperately with one hand. "We will make another hole in that belt about three inches back," and he got out his knife and suited the action to the word. "There—that's better—you can let go of them now! And we'll turn up the legs about four inches—no, we'd better cut them off." He set the candle on the floor, picked up the scissors, and carefully trimmed each leg. "But those feet are ridiculous," he added, severely. "No real boy ever had feet like that!"
 
She stared down at them ruefully.
 
"They will seem larger when I get them full of mud," she pointed out. "I thought of putting on a pair of your shoes, but gave it up, for I am afraid I could not travel very far in them. Fortunately these are very strong!"
 
He sniffed skeptically, but had to agree with her that his shoes were impossible.
 
"There is one thing more," and she lifted her cap and let her tucked-up hair fall about her shoulders. "This must be cut off."
 
"Oh, no," protested Stewart, drawing back in horror. "That would be desecration—why, it's the most beautiful hair in the world!"
 
"Nonsense! In any case, it will grow again."
 
"Why not just tie it up under your cap?"
 
But she shook her head.
 
"No—it must come off. I might lose the cap—you see it is too large—and my hair would betray us. Cut it off, my friend—be quick."
 
She was right, of course, and Stewart, with a heavy heart, snipped away the long tresses. Then he trimmed the hair as well as he was able—which was very badly indeed. Finally he parted it rakishly on one side—and only by a supreme effort restrained himself from taking her in his arms and kissing her.
 
"Really," he said, "you're so ridiculously lovely that I'm in great danger of violating our treaty. I warn you it is extremely dangerous to look at me like that!"
 
She lowered her eyes instantly, but she could not restrain the dimple. Luckily, in the shadow, Stewart did not see it.
 
"We must make my clothing into a bundle," she said, sedately. "I may need it again. Besides, these people must not suspect that I have gone away disguised like this. That will give us a great advantage. Yes, gather up the hair and we will take it too—it would betray us. Put the cigars in your pocket. I will take the pipe and tobacco."
 
"Do you expect to smoke? I warn you that that pipe is a seasoned one!"
 
"I may risk a puff or two. I have been told there is no passport like a pipe of tobacco. No—do not shut the bags. Leave them open as though we had fled hurriedly. And," she added, crimsoning a little, "I think it would be well to disarrange the bed."
 
Stewart flung back the covers and rolled upon it, while his companion cast a last look about the room. Then she picked up her little bag and took out the purse and the two letters.
 
"Which pocket of a man's clothes is safest?" she asked.
 
"The inside coat pocket. There are two inside pockets in the coat you have on. One of them has a flap which buttons down. Nothing could get out of it."
 
She took the coins from the purse, dropped them into the pocket, and replaced the purse in the bag. Then she started to place the letters in the pocket, but hesitated, looking at him searchingly, her lips compressed.
 
"My friend," she said, coming suddenly close to him and speaking in the merest breath, "I am going to trust you with a great secret. The information I carry is in these letters—apparently so innocent. If anything should happen to me——"
 
"Nothing is going to happen to you," broke in Stewart, roughly. "That is what I am for!"
 
"I know—and yet something may. If anything should, promise me that you will take these letters from my pocket, and by every means in your power, seek to place them in the hands of General Joffre."
 
"General Joffre?" repeated Stewart. "Who is he?"
 
"He is the French commander-in-chief."
 
"But what chance would I have of reaching him? I should merely be laughed at if I asked to see him!"
 
"Not if you asked in the right way," and again she hesitated. Then she pressed still closer. "Listen—I have no right to tell you what I am about to tell you, and yet I must. Do you remember at Aix, I looked at you like this?" and she caught her lower lip for an instant between the thumb and little finger of her left hand.
 
"Yes, I remember; and you burst into tears immediately afterward."
 
"That was because you did not understand. If, in answer, you had passed your left hand across your eyes, I should have said, in French, 'Have we not met before?' and if you had replied, 'In Berlin, on the twenty-second,' I should have known that you were one of ours. Those passwords will take you to General Joffre himself."
 
"Let us repeat them," Stewart suggested. In a moment he knew them thoroughly. "And that's all right!" he said.
 
"You consent, then?" she asked, eagerly.
 
"To assist you in every way possible—yes."
 
"To leave me, if I am not able to go on; to take the letters and press on alone," she insisted, her eyes shining. "Promise me, my friend!"
 
"I shall have to be governed by circumstances," said Stewart, cautiously. "If that seems the best thing to do—why, I'll do it, of course. But I warn you that this enterprise would soon go to pieces if it had no better wits than mine back of it. Why, in the few minutes they were searching you back there at the station, I walked straight into a trap—and with my eyes wide open, too—at the very moment when I was proudly thinking what a clever fellow I was!"
 
"What was the trap?" she asked, quickly.
 
"I was talking to that officer, and babbled out the story of how I came to go to the Kölner Hof, and he seemed surprised that a member of the police should have recommended it—which seems strange to me, too," he added, "now that I think of it. Then he asked me suddenly how you knew I was there."
 
"Yes, yes; and what did you say?"
 
"I didn't say anything for a minute—I felt as though I were falling out of a airship. But after I had fallen about a mile, I managed to say that I had sent you a telegram and also a postcard."
 
"How lucky!" breathed the girl. "How shrewd of you!"
 
"Shrewd? Was it? But that shock was nothing to the jolt I got the next minute when he told me that you had brought the postcard along in your bag! It was a good thing you came in just then, or he would have seen by the way I sat there gaping at him that the whole story was a lie!"
 
"I should have told you of the postcard," she said, with a gesture of annoyance. "It is often just some such tiny oversight which wrecks a whole plan. One tries to foresee everything—to provide for everything—and then some little, little detail goes wrong, and the whole structure comes tumbling down. It was chance that saved us—but in affairs of this sort, nothing must be left to chance! If we had failed, it would have been my fault!"
 
"But how could there have been a postcard?" demanded Stewart. "I should like to see it."
 
Smiling, yet with a certain look of anxiety, she stepped to her bag, took out the postcard, and handed it to him. On one side was a picture of the cathedral at Cologne; on the other, the address and the message:
 
Cologne, July 31, 1914.
 
Dear Mary—
 
Do not forget that it is to-morrow, Saturday, you are to meet me at Aix-la-Chapelle, from where we will go on to Brussels together, as we have planned. If I should fail to meet you at the train, you will find me at a hotel called the Kölner Hof, not far from the station.
 
With much love,
 
Bradford Stewart.
 
Stewart read this remarkable message with astonished eyes, then, holding the card close to the candle, he stared at it in bewilderment.
 
"But it is my handwriting!" he protested. "At least, a fairly good imitation of it—and the signature is mine to a dot."
 
"Your signature was all the writer had," she explained. "Your handwriting had to be inferred from that."
 
"Where did you get my signature? Oh, from the blank I filled up at Aix, I suppose. But no," and he looked at the card again, "the postmark shows that it was mailed at Cologne last night."
 
"The postmark is a fabrication."
 
"Then it was from the blank at Aix?"
 
"No," she said, and hesitated, an anxiety in her face he did not understand.
 
"Then where did you get it?" he persisted "Why shouldn't you tell me?"
 
"I will tell you," she answered, but her voice was almost inaudible. "It is right that you should know. You gave the signature to the man who examined your passport on the terrace of the Hotel Continental at Cologne, and who recommended you to the Kölner Hof. He also was one of ours."
 
Stewart was looking at her steadily.
 
"Then in that case," he said, and his face was gray and stern, "it was I, and no one else, you expected to meet at the Kölner Hof."
 
"Yes," she answered with trembling lips, but meeting his gaze unwaveringly.
 
"And all that followed—the tears, the dismay—was make-believe?"
 
"Yes. I cannot lie to you, my friend."
 
Stewart passed an unsteady hand before his eyes. It seemed that something had suddenly burst within him—some dream, some vision——
 
"So I was deliberately used," he began, hoarsely; but she stopped him, her hand upon his arm.
 
"Do not speak in that tone," she pleaded, her face wrung with anguish. "Do not look at me like that—I did not know—I had never seen you—it was not my plan. We were face to face with failure—we were desperate—there seemed no other way." She stopped, shuddering slightly, and drew away from him. "At least, you will say good-by," she said, softly.
 
Dazedly Stewart looked at her—at her eyes dark with sadness, at her face suddenly so white——
 
She was standing near the window, her hand upon the curtain.
 
"Good-by, my friend," she repeated. "You have been very good to me!"
 
For an instant longer, Stewart stood staring—then he sprang at her, seized her——
 
"Do you mean that you are going to leave me?" he demanded, roughly.
 
"Surely that is what you wish!"
 
"What I wish? No, no! What do I care—what does it matter!" The words were pouring incoherently from his trembling lips. "I understand—you were desperate—you didn't know me; even if you had, it would make no difference. Don't you understand—nothing can make any difference now!"
 
She shivered a little; then she drew away, looking at him.
 
"You mean," she stammered; "you mean that you still—that you still——"
 
"Little comrade!" he said, and held out his arms.
 
She lifted her eyes to his—wavered toward him——
 
"Halt!" cried a voice outside the window, and an instant later there came a heavy hammering on the street door.
CHAPTER IX THE FRONTIER
 The knocking seemed to shake the house, so violent it was, so insistent; and Stewart, petrified, stood staring numbly. But his companion was quicker than he. In an instant she had run to the light and blown it out. Then she was back at his side.
 
"The moment they are in the house," she said, "raise the window as silently as you can and unbolt the shutter."
 
And then she was gone again, and he could hear her moving about near the door.
 
Again the knocking came, louder than before. It could mean only one thing, Stewart told himself—their ruse had been discovered—a party of soldiers had come to arrest them——
 
He drew a quick breath. What then? He closed his eyes dizzily—what had she said? "A file of soldiers in front, a wall behind!" But that should never be! They must kill him first! And then he sickened as he realized how puny he was, how utterly powerless to protect her——
 
He heard shuffling footsteps approach along the hall, and a glimmer of light showed beneath the door. For an instant Stewart stared at it uncomprehending—then he smiled to himself. The girl, quicker witted than he, had pulled away the things that had been stuffed there.
 
"Who is it?" called the voice of their landlady.
 
"It is I, Frau Ritter," answered the voice of the police agent. "Open quickly."
 
A key rattled in a lock, the door was opened, and the party stepped inside.
 
Stewart, at the window, raised the sash and pulled back the bolt. He could hear the confused murmur of voices—men's voices——
 
Then he felt a warm hand in his and lips at his ear.
 
"It is the person from Strassburg," she breathed. "He has been brought here for the night. There is no danger. Bolt the shutter again—but softly."
 
She was gone again, and Stewart, with a deep breath that was almost a sob, thrust home the bolt. The voices were clearer now—or perhaps it was the singing of his blood that was stilled—and he could hear their words.
 
"You will give this gentleman a room," said the secret agent.
 
"Yes, Excellency."
 
"How are your other guests?"
 
"I have heard nothing from them, Excellency, since they retired."
 
Suddenly Stewart felt his hat lifted from his head and a hand rumpling his hair.
 
"Take off your coat," whispered a voice. "Open the door a little and demand less noise. Say that I am asleep!"
 
It was a call to battle, and Stewart felt his nerves stiffen. Without a word he threw off his coat and tore off his collar. Then he moved away the chair from before the door, opened it, and put one eye to the crack. There were five people in the hall—the woman, the secret agent, two soldiers, and a man in civilian attire.
 
"What the deuce is the matter out there?" he demanded.
 
It did his heart good to see how they jumped at the sound of his voice.
 
"Your pardon, sir," said the officer, stepping toward him. "I hope we have not disturbed you."
 
"Disturbed me? Why, I thought you were knocking the house down!"
 
"Frau Ritter is a heavy sleeper," the other explained with a smile. "You will present my apologies to Madame."
 
"My wife is so weary that even this has not awakened her, but I hope——"
 
"What is it, Tommy?" asked a sleepy voice from the darkness behind him. "To whom are you talking out there?"
 
"Your pardon, madame," said the officer, raising his voice, and doubtless finding a certain piquancy in the situation. "You shall not be disturbed again—I promise it," and he signed for his men to withdraw. "Good-night, sir."
 
"Good-night!" answered Stewart, and shut the door.
 
He was so shaken with mirth that he scarcely heard the outer door close. Then he staggered to the bed and collapsed upon it.
 
"Oh, little comrade!" he gasped. "Little comrade!" and he buried his head in the clothes to choke back the hysterical shouts of laughter which rose in his throat.
 
"Hush! Hush!" she warned him, her hand on his shoulder. "Get your coat and hat. Be quick!"
 
The search for those articles of attire sobered him. He had never before realized how large a small room may become in the dark! His coat he found in one corner; his hat miles away in another. His collar and tie seemed to have disappeared utterly, and he was about to abandon them to their fate, when his hand came into contact with them under the bed. He felt utterly exhausted, and sat on the floor panting for breath. Then somebody stumbled against him.
 
"Where have you been?" her voice demanded impatiently. "What have you been doing?"
 
"I have been around the world," said Stewart. "And I explored it thoroughly."
 
Her hand found his shoulder and shook it violently.
 
"Is this a time for jesting? Come!"
 
Stewart got heavily to his feet.
 
"Really," he protested, "I wasn't jesting——"
 
"Hush!" she cautioned, and suddenly Stewart saw her silhouetted against the window and knew that it was open. Then he saw her peer cautiously out, swing one leg over the sill, and let herself down outside.
 
"Careful!" she whispered.
 
In a moment he was standing beside her in the narrow street. She caught his hand and led him away close in the shadow of the wall.
 
The night air and the movement revived him somewhat, and by a desperate effort of will he managed to walk without stumbling; but he was still deadly tired. He knew that he was suffering from the reaction from the manifold adventures and excitements of the day, more especially the reaction from despair to hope of the last half hour, and he tried his best to shake it off, marveling at the endurance of this slender girl, who had borne so much more than he.
 
She went straight on along the narrow street, close in the shadow of the houses, pausing now and then to listen to some distant sound, and once hastily drawing him deep into the shadow of a doorway as a patrol passed along a cross-street.
 
Then the houses came to an end, and Stewart saw that they were upon a white road running straight away between level fields. Overhead the bright stars shone as calmly and peacefully as though there were no such thing as war in the whole universe, and looking up at them, Stewart felt himself tranquilized and strengthened.
 
"Now what?" he asked. "I warn you that I shall go to sleep on my feet before long!"
 
"We must not stop until we are across the frontier. It cannot be farther than half a mile."
 
Half a mile seemed an eternity to Stewart at that moment; besides, which way should they go? He gave voice to the question, after a helpless look around, for he had completely lost his bearings.
 
"Yonder is the Great Bear," said the girl, looking up to where that beautiful constellation stretched brilliantly across the sky. "What is your word for it—the Ladle, is it not?"
 
"The Dipper," Stewart corrected, reflecting that this was the first time she had been at loss for a word.
 
"Yes—the Dipper. It will help us to find our way. All I know of astronomy is that a line drawn through the two stars of the bowl points to the North Star. So that insignificant little star up yonder must be the North Star. Now, what is the old formula—if one stands with one's face to the north——"
 
"Your right hand will be toward the east and your left toward the west," prompted Stewart.
 
"So the frontier is to our left. Come."
 
She released his hand, leaped the ditch at the side of the road, and set off westward across a rough field. Stewart stumbled heavily after her; but presently his extreme exhaustion passed, and was followed by a sort of nervous exhilaration which enabled him easily to keep up with her. They climbed a wall, struggled through a strip of woodland—Stewart had never before realized how difficult it is to go through woods at night!—passed close to a house where a barking dog sent panic terror through them, and came at last to a road running westward, toward Belgium and safety. Along this they hastened as rapidly as they could.
 
"We must be past the frontier," said Stewart, half an hour later. "We have come at least two miles."
 
"Let us be sure," gasped the girl. "Let us take no chance!" and she pressed on.
 
Stewart reflected uneasily that they had encountered no outposts, and surely there would be outposts at the frontier to maintain its neutrality and intercept stragglers; but perhaps that would be only on the main-traveled roads; or perhaps the outposts were not yet in place; or perhaps they might run into one at any moment. He looked forward apprehensively, but the road lay white and empty under the stars.
 
Suddenly the girl stumbled and nearly fell. His arm was about her in an instant. He could feel how her body drooped against him in utter weariness. She had reached the end of her strength.
 
"Come," he said; "we must rest," and he led her unresisting to the side of the road.
 
They sat down close together with their backs against the wall, and her head for an instant fell upon his shoulder. By a supreme effort, she roused herself.
 
"We cannot stay here!" she protested.
 
"No," Stewart agreed. "Do you think you can climb this wall? We may find cover on the other side."
 
"Of course I can," and she tried to rise, but Stewart had to assist her. "I do not know what is the matter," she panted, as she clung to him. "I can scarcely stand!"
 
"It's the reaction," said Stewart. "It was bound to come, sooner or later. I had my attack back there on the road. Now I am going to lift you on top of the wall."
 
She threw one leg over it and sat astride.
 
"Oh, I have dropped the bundle," she said.
 
"Have you been carrying it all this time?" Stewart demanded.
 
"Why, of course. It weighs nothing."
 
Stewart, groping angrily along the base of the wall, found it, tucked it under his arm, scrambled over, and lifted her down.
 
"Now, forward!" he said.
 
At the second step, they were in a field of grain as high as their waists. They could feel it brushing against them, twining about their ankles; they could glimpse its yellow expanse stretching away into the night.
 
"Splendid!" cried Stewart. "There could be no better cover!" and he led her forward into it. "Now," he added, at the end of five minutes, "stand where you are till I get things ready for you," and with his knife he cut down great handfuls of the grain and piled them upon the ground. "There's your bed," he said, placing the bundle of clothing at one end of it; "and there's your pillow."
 
She sat down with a sigh of relief.
 
"Oh, how heavenly!"
 
"You can go to sleep without fear. No one can discover us here, unless they stumble right over us. Good-night, little comrade."
 
"But you?"
 
"Oh, I am going to sleep, too. I'll make myself a bed just over here."
 
"Good-night, my friend!" she said, softly, and Stewart, looking down at her, catching the starry sheen of her uplifted eyes, felt a wild desire to fling himself beside her, to take her in his arms——
 
Resolutely he turned away and piled his own bed at a little distance. It would have been safer, perhaps, had they slept side by side; but there was about her something delicate and virginal which kept him at a distance—and yet held him too, bound him powerfully, led him captive.
 
He was filled with the thought of her, as he lay gazing up into the spangled heavens—her beauty, her fire, her indomitable youth, her clear-eyed innocence which left him reverent and trembling. What was her story? Where were her people that they should permit her to take such desperate risks? Why had this great mission been confided to her—to a girl, young, inexperienced? And yet, the choice had evidently been a wise one. She had proved herself worthy of the trust. No one could have been quicker-witted, more ready of resource.
 
Well, the worst of it was over. They were safe out of Germany. It was only a question now of reaching a farmhouse, of hiring a wagon, of driving to the nearest station——
 
He stirred uneasily. That would mean good-by. But why should he go to Brussels? Why not turn south with her to France?
 
Sleep came to him as he was asking himself this question for the twentieth time.
 
It was full day when he awoke. He looked about for a full minute at the yellow grain, heavy-headed and ready for the harvest, before he remembered where he was. Then he rubbed his eyes and looked again—the wheat-field, certainly—that was all right; but what was that insistent murmur which filled his ears, which never ceased? He sat hastily erect and started to his feet—then as hastily dropped to his knees again and peered cautiously above the grain.
 
Along the road, as far in either direction as the eye could see, passed a mighty multitude, marching steadily westward. Stewart's heart beat faster as he ran his eyes over that great host—thousands and tens of thousands, clad in greenish-gray, each with his rifle and blanket-roll, his full equipment complete to the smallest detail—the German army setting forth to war! Oh, wonderful, astounding, stupendous!—a myriad of men, moving as one man, obeying one man's bidding, marching out to kill and to be killed.
 
And marching willingly, even eagerly. The bright morning, the sense of high adventure, the exhilaration of marching elbow to elbow with a thousand comrades—yes, and love of country, the thought that they were fighting for their Fatherland—all these uplifted the heart and made the eye sparkle. Forgotten for the moment were poignant farewells, the tears of women and of children. The round of daily duties, the quiet of the fireside, the circle of familiar faces—all that had receded far into the past. A new life had begun, a larger and more glorious life. They felt that they were men going forward to men's work; they were drinking deep of a cup brimming with the joy of supreme experience!
 
There were jests and loud laughter; there were snatches of song; and presently a thousand voices were shouting what sounded to Stewart like a mighty hymn—shouting it in slow and solemn unison, marked by the tramp, tramp of their feet. Not until he caught the refrain did he know what it was—"Deutschland, Deutschland, über alles!"—the German battle-song, fit expression of the firm conviction that the Fatherland was first, was dearest, must be over all! And as he looked and listened, he felt his own heart thrill responsively, and a new definition of patriotism grouped itself in his mind.
 
Then suddenly he remembered his companion, and, parting the wheat, he crawled hastily through into the little amphitheater where he had made her bed. She was still asleep, her head pillowed on the bundle of clothing, one arm above her eyes, shielding them from the light. He sat softly down beside her, his heart very tender. She had been so near exhaustion; he must not awaken her——
 
A blare of bugles shrilled from the road, and from far off rose a roar of cheering, sweeping nearer and nearer.
 
The girl stirred, turned uneasily, opened her eyes, stared up at him for a moment, and then sat hastily erect.
 
"What is it?" she asked.
 
"The German army is advancing."
 
"Yes—but the cheering?"
 
"I don't know."
 
Side by side, they peered out above the grain. A heavy motor-car was advancing rapidly from the east along the road, the troops drawing aside to let it pass, and cheering—cheering, as though mad.
 
Inside the car were three men, but the one who acknowledged the salutes of the officers as he passed was a tall, slender young fellow in a long, gray coat. His face was radiant, and he saluted and saluted, and once or twice rose to his feet and pointed westward.
 
"The Crown Prince!" said the girl, and watched in heavy silence until the motor passed from sight and the host took up its steady march again. "Ah, well, he at least has realized his ambition—to lead an army against France!"
 
"It seems to be a devoted army," Stewart remarked. "I never heard such cheering."
 
"It is a splendid army," and the girl swept her eyes back and forth over the marching host.
 
"France will have no easy task—but she is fighting for her life, and she will win!"
 
"I hope so," Stewart agreed; but his heart misgave him as he looked at these marching men, sweeping on endlessly, irresistibly, in a torrent which seemed powerful enough to engulf everything in its path.
 
He had never before seen an army, even a small one, and this mighty host unnerved and intimidated him. It was so full of vigor, so self-confident, so evidently certain of victory! It was so sturdy, so erect, so proud! There was about it an electric sense of power; it almost strutted as it marched!
 
"There is one thing certain," he said, at last, "and that is that our adventures are not yet over. With our flight discovered, and Germans in front of us and behind us and probably on either side of us, our position is still decidedly awkward. I suppose their outposts are somewhere ahead."
 
"Yes, I suppose so," she agreed. "Along the Meuse, perhaps."
 
"And I am most awfully hungry. Aren't you?"
 
"Yes, I am."
 
"I have heard that whole wheat makes a delicious breakfast dish," said Stewart, who felt unaccountably down-hearted and was determined not to show it. "Shall we try some?"
 
She nodded, smiling, then turned back to watch the Germans, as though fascinated by them. Stewart broke off a dozen heads of yellow grain, rubbed them out between his hands, blew away the chaff, and poured the fat kernels into her outstretched palm. Then he rubbed out a mouthful for himself.
 
"But that they should invade Belgium!" she said, half to herself. "Did you hear what that man said last night—that a treaty was only a scrap of paper—that if Belgium resisted, she would be crushed?"
 
"Yes," nodded Stewart, "and it disgusted me!"
 
"But of course France has expected it—she has prepared for it!" went on the girl, perhaps to silence her own misgivings. "She will not be taken by surprise!"
 
"You don't think, then, that the Kaiser will dine in Paris on the twelfth?"
 
"Nonsense—that was only an empty boast!"
 
"Well, I hope so," said Stewart. "And wherever he dines, I hope that he has something more appetizing than whole wheat au naturel. I move we look for a house and try to get some real food that we can put our teeth into. Also something to drink."
 
"Yes, we must be getting forward," she agreed.
 
Together they peered out again above the grain. The massed column was still passing, shimmering along the dusty road like a mighty green-gray serpent.
 
"Isn't there any end to these fellows?" Stewart asked. "We must have seen about a million!"
 
"Oh, no; this is but a single division—and there are at least a hundred divisions in the German army! No doubt there is another division on each of the roads leading into Belgium. We shall have to keep away from the roads. Let us work our way back through the grain to that strip of woodland. No," she added, as Stewart stooped to pick up the bundle of clothing, "we must leave that. If we should happen to be stopped, it would betray us. What are you doing?"
 
Without replying, Stewart opened the bundle, thoughtfully selected a strand of the beautiful hair inside it and placed the lock carefully in a flapped compartment of his pocket-book. Then he re-tied the bundle and threw over it some of the severed stalks.
 
"It seems a shame to leave it," he said. "That is a beautiful gown—and the hair! Think of those barbarians opening the bundle and finding that lovely hair!"
 
The girl, who had been watching him with brilliant eyes, laughed a little and caught his hand.
 
"How foolish! Come along! I think I shall let you keep that lock of hair!" she added, thoughtfully.
 
Stewart looked at her quickly and saw that the dimple was visible.
 
"Thank you!" he said. "Of course I should have asked. Forgive me!"
 
She gave him a flashing little smile, then, bending low, hurried forward through the grain. Beyond the field lay a stretch of woodland, and presently they heard the sound of running water, and came to a brook flowing gently over a clean and rocky bed.
 
With a cry of delight, the girl dropped to her knees beside it, bent far over and drank deep; then threw off her coat, pushed her sleeves above her elbows, and laved hands and face in the cool water.
 
"How fortunate my hair is short!" she said, contemplating her reflection. "Otherwise it would be a perfect tangle. I make a very nice boy, do you not think so?"
 
"An adorable boy!" agreed Stewart, heartily.
 
She glanced up at him.
 
"Thank you! But are you not going to wash?"
 
"Not until you have finished. You are such a radiant beauty, that it would be a sin to miss an instant of you. My clothes are even more becoming to you than your own!"
 
She glanced down over her slender figure, so fine, so delicately rounded, then sprang quickly to her feet and snatched up the coat.
 
"I will reconnoiter our position while you make your toilet," she said, and slipped out of sight among the trees.
 
Ten minutes later, Stewart found her seated on a little knoll at the edge of the wood, looking out across the country.
 
"There is a house over yonder," she said, nodding to where the corner of a gable showed among the trees. "But it may be dangerous to approach it."
 
"We can't starve," he pointed out. "And we seem to be lucky. Suppose I go on ahead?"
 
"No; we will go together," and she sprang to her feet.
 
The way led over a strip of rocky ground, used evidently as a pasture, but there were no cattle grazing on it; then along a narrow lane between low stone walls. Presently they reached the house, which seemed to be the home of a small farmer, for it stood at the back of a yard with stables and sheds grouped about it. The gate was open and there was no sign of life within. Stewart started to enter, but suddenly stopped and looked at his companion.
 
"There is something wrong here," he said, almost in a whisper. "I feel it."
 
"So do I," said the girl, and stared about at the deserted space, shivering slightly. Then she looked upward into the clear sky. "It was as if a cloud had come between me and the sun," she added.
 
"Perhaps it is just that everything seems so deserted," said Stewart, and stepped through the gate.
 
"No doubt the people fled when they saw the Germans," she suggested; "or perhaps it was just a rumor that frightened them away."
 
Stewart looked about him. It was not only people that were missing from this farmyard, he told himself; there should have been pigs in the sty, chickens scratching in the straw, pigeons on the roof, a cat on the door-step.
 
"We must have food," he said, and went forward resolutely to the door, which stood ajar.
 
There was something vaguely sinister in the position of the door, half-open and half-closed, but after an instant's hesitation, he knocked loudly. A minute passed, and another, and there was no response. Nerving himself as though for a mighty effort, he pushed the door open and looked into the room beyond.
 
It was evidently the living-room and dining-room combined, and it was in the wildest disorder. Chairs were overturned, a table was lying on its side with one leg broken, dishes lay smashed upon the floor.
 
Summoning all his resolution, Stewart stepped inside. What frightful thing had happened here? From the chairs and the dishes, it looked as if the family had been surprised at breakfast. But where was the family? Who had surprised them? What had——
 
And then his heart leaped sickeningly as his eyes fell upon a huddled figure lying in one corner, close against the wall. It was the body of a woman, her clothing disordered, a long, gleaming bread-knife clutched tightly in one hand; and as Stewart bent above her, he saw that her head had been beaten in.
CHAPTER X FORTUNE FROWNS
 One look at that disfigured countenance imprinted it indelibly on Stewart's memory—the blue eyes staring horribly upward from under the shattered forehead, the hair matted with blood, the sprawling body, the gleaming knife caught up in what moment of desperation! Shaking with horror, he seized his companion's hand and led her away out of the desecrated house, out of the silent yard, out into the narrow lane where they could breathe freely.
 
"The Uhlans have passed this way," said the girl, staring up and down the road.
 
"But," stammered Stewart, wiping his wet forehead, "but I don't understand. Germany is a civilized nation—war is no longer the brutal thing it once was."
 
"War is always brutal, I fear," said the girl, sadly; "and of course, among a million men, there are certain to be some—like that! I am no longer hungry. Let us press on."
 
Stewart, nodding, followed along beside her, across fields, over little streams, up and down stretches of rocky hillside, always westward. But he saw nothing; his mind was full of other things—of the gray-clad thousands singing as they marched; of the radiant face of the Crown Prince; of that poor murdered woman, who had risen happily this Sunday morning, glad of a day of rest, and looked up to see strange faces at the door——
 
And this was war. A thousand other women would suffer the same fate; thousands and thousands more would be thrown stripped and defenseless on the world, to live or die as chance might will; a hundred thousand children would be fatherless; a hundred thousand girls, now ripening into womanhood, would be denied their rightful destiny of marriage and children of their own——
 
Stewart shook the thought away. The picture his imagination painted was too horrible; it could never come true—not all the emperors on earth could make it come true!
 
He looked about him at the mellow landscape. Nowhere was there a sign of life. The yellow wheat stood ripe for the harvest. The pastures stretched lush and green—and empty. Here and there above the trees he caught a glimpse of farmhouse chimneys, but no reassuring smoke floated above then. A peaceful land, truly, so he told himself—peaceful as death!
 
Gradually the country grew rougher and more broken, and ahead of them they could see steep and rocky hillsides, cleft by deep valleys and covered by a thick growth of pine.
 
"We must find a road," said Stewart at last; "we can't climb up and down those hills. And we must find out where we are. There is a certain risk, but we must take it. It is foolish to stumble forward blindly."
 
"You are right," his companion agreed, and when presently, far below them at the bottom of a valley, they saw a white road winding, they made their way down to it. Almost at once they came to a house, in whose door stood a buxom, fair-haired woman, with a child clinging to her skirts.
 
The woman watched them curiously as they approached, and her face seemed to Stewart distinctly friendly.
 
"Good-morning," he said, stopping before the door-step and lifting his hat—an unaccustomed salutation at which the woman stared. "We seem to have lost our way. Can you tell us——"
 
The woman shook her head.
 
"My brother and I have lost our way," said his companion, in rapid French. "We have been tramping the hills all morning. How far is it to the nearest village?"
 
"The nearest village is Battice," answered the woman in the same language. "It is three kilometers from here."
 
"Has it a railway station?"
 
"But certainly. How is it you do not know?"
 
"We come from the other direction."
 
"From Germany?"
 
"Yes," answered the girl, after an instant's scrutiny of the woman's face.
 
"Then you are fugitives? Ah, do not fear to tell me," she added, as the girl hesitated. "I have no love for the Germans. I have lived near them too long!"
 
There could be no doubting the sincerity of the words, nor the grimace of disgust which accompanied them.
 
"Yes," assented the girl, "we are fugitives. We are trying to get to Liège. Have the Germans been this way?"
 
"No; I have seen nothing of them, but I have heard that a great army has passed along the road through Verviers."
 
"Where is your man?"
 
"He has joined the army, as have all the men in this neighborhood."
 
"The German army?"
 
"Oh, no; the Belgian army. It is doing what it can to hold back the Germans."
 
The girl's face lighted with enthusiasm.
 
"Oh, how splendid!" she cried. "How splendid for your brave little country to defy the invader! Bravo, Belgium!"
 
The woman smiled at her enthusiasm, but shook her head doubtfully.
 
"I do not know," she said, simply. "I do not understand these things. I only know that my man has gone, and that I must harvest our grain and cut our winter wood by myself. But will you not enter and rest yourselves?"
 
"Thank you. And we are very hungry. We have money to pay for food, if you can let us have some."
 
"Certainly, certainly," and the good wife bustled before them into the house.
 
An hour later, rested, refreshed, with a supply of sandwiches in their pockets, and armed with a rough map drawn from the directions of their hostess, they were ready to set out westward again. She was of the opinion that they could pass safely through Battice, which was off the main road of the German advance, and that they might even secure there a vehicle of some sort to take them onward. The trains, she understood, were no longer running. Finally they thanked her for the twentieth time and bade her good-by. She wished them God-speed, and stood watching them from the door until they disappeared from view.
 
They pushed forward briskly, and presently, huddled in the valley below them, caught sight of the gabled roofs of the village. A bell was ringing vigorously, and they could see the people—women and children for the most part—gathering in toward the little church, crowned by its gilded cross. Evidently nothing had occurred to disturb the serenity of Battice.
 
Reassured, the two were about to push on down the road, when suddenly, topping the opposite slope, they saw a squadron of horsemen, perhaps fifty strong. They were clad in greenish-gray, and each of them bore upright at his right elbow a long lance.
 
"Uhlans!" cried the girl, and the fugitives stopped short, watching with bated breath.
 
The troop swung down the road toward the village at a sharp trot, and presently Stewart could distinguish their queer, flat-topped helmets, reminding him of the mortar-board of his university days. Right at the edge of the village, in the shadow of some trees, the horsemen drew rein and waited until the bell ceased ringing and the last of the congregation had entered the church; then, at the word of command, they touched spur to flank and swept through the empty street.
 
A boy saw them first and raised a shout of alarm; then a woman, hurrying toward the church, heard the clatter of hoofs, cast one glance behind her, and ran on, screaming wildly. The screams penetrated the church, and in a moment the congregation came pouring out, only to find themselves hemmed in by a semicircle of lowered lances.
 
The lieutenant shouted a command, and four of his men threw themselves from the saddle and disappeared into the church. They were back in a moment, dragging between them a white-haired priest clad in stole and surplice, and a rosy-faced old man, who, even in this trying situation, managed to retain his dignity.
 
The two were placed before the officer, and a short conference followed, with the townspeople pressing anxiously around, listening to every word. Suddenly there was an outburst of protest and despair, which the priest quieted with a motion of his hand, and the conference was resumed.
 
"What is it the fellow wants?" asked Stewart.
 
"Money and supplies, I suppose."
 
"Money and supplies? But that's robbery!"
 
"Oh, no; it is a part of the plan of the German General Staff. How many times have I heard Prussian officers boast that a war would cost Germany nothing—that her enemies would be made to bear the whole burden! It has all been arranged—the indemnity which each village, even the smallest, must pay—the amount of supplies which each must furnish, the ransom which will be assessed on each individual. This lieutenant of Uhlans is merely carrying out his instructions!"
 
"Who is the old man?"
 
"The burgomaster, doubtless. He and the priest are always the most influential men in a village."
 
The conference was waxing warmer, the lieutenant was talking in a loud voice, and once he shook his fist menacingly; again there was a wail of protest from the crowd—women were wringing their hands——
 
"He is demanding more than the village can supply," remarked the girl. "That is not surprising," she added, with a bitter smile. "They will always demand more than can be supplied. But come; we must be getting on."
 
Stewart would have liked to see the end of the drama, but he followed his companion over the wall at the side of the road, and then around the village and along the rough hillside. Suddenly from the houses below arose a hideous tumult—shouts, curses, the smashing of glass—and in a moment, a flood of people, wailing, screaming, shaking their fists in the air, burst from the town and swept along the road in the direction of Herve.
 
"They would better have given all that was demanded," said the girl, looking down at them. "Now they will be made to serve as an example to other villages—they will lose everything—even their houses—see!"
 
Following the direction of her pointing finger, Stewart saw a black cloud of smoke bulging up from one end of the village.
 
"But surely," he gasped, "they're not burning it! They wouldn't dare do that!"
 
"Why not?"
 
"Isn't looting prohibited by the rules of war?"
 
"Certainly—looting and the destruction of property of non-combatants."
 
"Well, then——"
 
But he stopped, staring helplessly. The cloud of smoke grew in volume, and below it could be seen red tongues of flame. There before him was the hideous reality—and he suddenly realized how futile it was to make laws for anything so essentially lawless as war, or to expect niceties of conduct from men thrown back into a state of barbarism.
 
"What do the rules of war matter to a nation which considers treaties mere scraps of paper?" asked the girl, in a hard voice. "Their very presence here in Belgium is a violation of the rules of war. Besides, it is the German theory that war should be ruthless—that the enemy must be intimidated, ravaged, despoiled in every possible way. They say that the more merciless it is, the briefer it will be. It is possible that they are not altogether wrong."
 
"True," muttered Stewart. "But it is a heartless theory."
 
"War is a heartless thing," commented his companion, turning away. "It is best not to think too much about it. Come—we must be going on."
 
They pushed forward again, keeping the road, with its rabble of frenzied fugitives, at their right. It was a wild and beautiful country, and under other circumstances, Stewart would have gazed in admiring wonder at its rugged cliffs, its deep precipitous valleys, its thickly-wooded hillsides; but now these appeared to him only as so many obstacles between him and safety.
 
At last the valley opened out, and below them they saw the clustered roofs of another village, which could only be Herve. Around it were broad pastures and fields of yellow grain, and suddenly the girl caught Stewart by the arm.
 
"Look!" she said, and pointed to the field lying nearest them.
 
A number of old men, women, and children were cutting the grain, tying it into sheaves, and piling the sheaves into stacks, under the supervision of four men. Those four men were clothed in greenish-gray and carried rifles in their hands! The invaders were stripping the grain from the fields in order to feed their army!
 
As he contemplated this scene, Stewart felt, mixed with his horror and detestation, a sort of unwilling admiration. Evidently, as his companion had said, when Germany made war, she made war. She was ruthlessly thorough. She allowed no sentiment, no feeling of pity, no weakening compassion, to interfere between her and her goal. She went to war with but one purpose: to win; and she was determined to win, no matter what the cost! Stewart shivered at the thought. Whether she won or lost, how awful that cost must be!
 
The fugitives went on again at last, working their way around the village, keeping always in the shelter of the woods along the hillsides, and after a weary journey, came out on the other side above the line of the railroad. A sentry, with fixed bayonet, stood guard over a solitary engine; except for him, the road seemed quite deserted. For half a mile they toiled along over the rough hillside above it without seeing anyone else.
 
"We can't keep this up," said Stewart, flinging himself upon the ground. "We shall have to take to the road if we are to make any progress. Do you think we'd better risk it?"
 
"Let us watch it for a while," the girl suggested, so they sat and watched it and munched their sandwiches, and talked in broken snatches. Ten minutes passed, but no one came in sight.
 
"It seems quite safe," she said at last, and together they made their way down to it.
 
"The next village is Fléron," said Stewart, consulting his rough map. "It is apparently about four miles from here. Liège is about ten miles further. Can we make it to-night?"
 
"We must!" said the girl, fiercely. "Come!"
 
The road descended steadily along the valley of a pretty river, closed in on either side by densely-wooded hills. Here and there among the trees, they caught glimpses of white villas; below them, along the river, there was an occasional cluster of houses; but they saw few people. Either the inhabitants of this land had fled before the enemy, or were keeping carefully indoors out of his way.
 
Once the fugitives had an alarm, for a hand-car, manned by a squad of German soldiers, came spinning past; but fortunately Stewart heard it singing along the rails in time to pull his companion into a clump of underbrush. A little later, along the highway by the river, they saw a patrol of Uhlans riding, and then they came to Fléron and took to the hills to pass around it. Here, too, clouds of black smoke hung heavy above certain of the houses, which, for some reason, had been made the marks of German reprisals; and once, above the trees to their right, they saw a column of smoke drifting upward, marking the destruction of some isolated dwelling.
 
The sun was sinking toward the west by the time they again reached the railroad, and they were both desperately weary; but neither had any thought of rest. The shadows deepened rapidly among the hills, but the darkness was welcome, for it meant added safety. By the time they reached Bois de Breux, night had come in earnest, so they made only a short détour, and were soon back on the railroad again, with scarcely five miles to go. For an hour longer they plodded on through the darkness, snatching a few minutes' rest once or twice; too weary to talk, or to look to right or left.
 
Then, as they turned a bend in the road, they drew back in alarm; for just ahead of them, close beside the track, a bright fire was burning, lighting up the black entrance of a tunnel, before which stood a sentry leaning on his rifle. Five or six other soldiers, wearing flat fatigue caps, were lolling about the fire, smoking and talking in low tones.
 
Stewart surveyed them curiously. They were big, good-humored-looking fellows, fathers of families doubtless—honest men with kindly hearts. It seemed absurd to suppose that such men as these would loot villages and burn houses and outrage women; it seemed absurd that anyone should fear them or hide from them. Stewart, with a feeling that all this threat of war was a chimera, had an impulse to go forward boldly and join them beside the fire. He was sure they would welcome him, make a place for him——
 
"Wer da?" called, sharply, a voice behind him, and he spun around to find himself facing a leveled rifle, behind which he could see dimly the face of a man wearing a spiked helmet—a patrol, no doubt, who had seen them as they stood carelessly outlined against the fire, and who had crept upon them unheard.
 
"We are friends," Stewart answered, hastily.
 
The soldier motioned them forward to the fire. The men there had caught up their rifles at the sound of the challenge, and stood peering anxiously out into the darkness. But when the two captives came within the circle of light cast by the fire, they stacked their guns and sat down again. Evidently they saw nothing threatening in the appearance of either Stewart or his companion.
 
Their captor added his gun to the stack and motioned them to sit down. Then he doffed his heavy helmet with evident relief and hung it on his rifle, got out a soft cap like the others', and finally sat down opposite his prisoners and looked at them closely.
 
"What are you doing here?" he demanded in German.
 
"We are trying to get through to Brussels," answered Stewart, in the best German he could muster. "I have not much German. Do you speak English?"
 
"No. Are you English?" And the blue eyes glinted with an unfriendly light which Stewart was at a loss to understand.
 
"We are Americans," and Stewart saw with relief that the man's face softened perceptibly. On the chance that, if the soldier could not speak English, neither could he read it, he impressively produced his passport. "Here is our safe-conduct from our Secretary of State," he said. "You will see that it is sealed with the seal of the United States. My brother and I were passed at Herbesthal, but could find no conveyance and started to walk. We lost our way, but stumbled upon the railroad some miles back and decided to follow it until we came to a village. How far away is the nearest village?"
 
"I do not know," said the man, curtly; but he took the passport and stared at it curiously. Then he passed it around the circle, and it finally came back to its owner, who placed it in his pocket.
 
"You find it correct?" Stewart inquired.
 
"I know nothing about it. You must wait until our officer arrives."
 
Stewart felt a sickening sensation at his heart, but he managed to smile.
 
"He will not be long, I hope," he said. "We are very tired and hungry."
 
"He will not be long," answered the other, shortly, and got out a long pipe, but Stewart stopped him with a gesture.
 
"Try one of these," he said, quickly, and brought out his handful of cigars and passed them around.
 
The men grinned their thanks, and were soon puffing away with evident enjoyment. But to Stewart the single cigar he had kept for himself seemed strangely savorless. He glanced at his companion. She was sitting hunched up, her arms about her knees, staring thoughtfully at the fire.
 
"This man says we must wait here until their officer arrives," he explained in English. "My brother does not understand German," he added to the men.
 
"How stupid!" said the girl. "I am so tired and stiff!"
 
"It is no use to argue with them, I suppose?"
 
"No. They will refuse to decide anything for themselves. They rely wholly upon their officers."
 
She rose wearily, stretched herself, stamped her foot as if it were asleep, and then sat down again and closed her eyes. She looked very young and fragile, and was shivering from head to foot.
 
"My brother is not strong," said Stewart to the attentive group. "I fear all this hardship and exposure will be more than he can bear."
 
One of the men, with a gesture of sympathy, rose, unrolled his blanket, and spread it on the bank behind the fire.
 
"Let the young man lie down there," he said.
 
"Oh, thank you!" cried Stewart. "Come, Tommy," he added, touching the girl on the arm. "Suppose you lie down till the officer comes."
 
She opened her eyes, saw the blanket, nodded sleepily, and, still shivering, followed Stewart to it, lay down, permitted him to roll her in it, and apparently dropped off to sleep on the instant. Stewart returned to the circle about the fire, nodding his satisfaction. They all smiled, as men do who have performed a kind action.
 
But Stewart, though doing his best to keep a placid countenance, was far from easy in his mind. One thing was certain—they must escape before the officer arrived. He, no doubt, would be able both to read and speak English, and the passport would betray them at once. For without question, a warning had been flashed from headquarters to every patrol to arrest the holder of that passport, and to send him and his companion, under close guard, back to Herbesthal. But how to escape!
 
Stewart glanced carefully about him, cursing the carelessness that had brought them into this trap, the imbecility which had held them staring at this outpost, instead of taking instantly to the woods, as they should have done. They deserved to be captured! Nevertheless——
 
The sentry was pacing slowly back and forth at the tunnel entrance, fifteen yards away; the other men were lolling about the fire, half-asleep. It would be possible, doubtless, to bolt into the darkness before they could grab their rifles, so there was only the sentry to fear, and the danger from him would not be very great. But it would be necessary to keep to the track for some distance, because, where it dropped into the tunnel, its sides were precipices impossible to scale in the darkness. The danger, then, lay in the fact that the men might have time to snatch up their rifles and empty them along the track before the fugitives would be able to leave it. But it was a danger which must be faced—there was no other way. Once in the woods, they would be safe.
 
Stewart, musing over the situation with eyes half-closed, recalled dim memories of daring escapes from Indians and outlaws, described in detail in the blood-and-thunder reading of his youth. There was always one ruse which never failed—just as the pursuers were about to fire, the fugitive would fling himself flat on his face, and the bullets would fly harmlessly over him; then he would spring to his feet and go safely on his way. Stewart smiled to remember how religiously he had believed in that stratagem, and how he had determined to practice it, if ever need arose! He had never contemplated the possibility of having to flee from a squad of men armed with magazine rifles, capable of firing twenty-five shots a minute!
 
Then he shook these thoughts away; there was no time to be lost. He must warn his companion, for they must make the dash at the same instant. He glanced toward where she lay in the shadow of the cliff, and saw that she was turning restlessly from side to side, as though fevered. With real anxiety, he hastened to her, knelt beside her, and placed his hand gently on her forehead. At the touch, she opened her eyes and stared dazedly up at him.
 
"Ask for some water," she said, weakly; and then, in the same tone, "we must flee at the moment they salute their officer."
 
Stewart turned to the soldiers, who were listening with inquiring faces.
 
"My brother is feverish," he explained. "He asks for a drink of water."
 
One of the men was instantly on his feet, unscrewing his canteen and holding it to the eager lips while Stewart supported his comrade's head. She drank eagerly and then dropped back with a sigh of satisfaction, and closed her eyes.
 
"He will go to sleep now," said Stewart. "Thank you," and he himself took a drink from the proffered flask.
 
He was surprised to find how cool and fresh the water tasted, and when he looked at the flask more closely, he saw that it was made like a Thermos bottle, with outer and inner shells. He handed it back to its owner with a nod of admiration.
 
"That is very clever," he said. "Everything seems to have been thought of."
 
"Yes, everything," agreed the other. "No army Is equipped like ours. I am told that the French are in rags."
 
"I don't know," said Stewart, cautiously, "I have never seen them."
 
"And their army is not organized; we shall be in Paris before they can mobilize. It will be 1870 over again. The war will be ended in two or three months. It has been promised us that we shall be home again for Christmas without fail."
 
"I hope you will," Stewart agreed; and there was a moment's silence. "How much longer shall we have to wait?" he asked, at last.
 
"Our officer should be here at any moment."
 
"It is absolutely necessary that we wait for him?"
 
"Yes, absolutely."
 
"We are very hungry," Stewart explained.
 
The soldier pondered for a moment, and then rose to his feet.
 
"I think I can give you food," he said. "It is permitted to give food, is it not?" he asked his comrades; and when they nodded, he opened his knapsack and took out a package of hard, square biscuits and a thick roll of sausage. He cut the sausage into generous slices, while Stewart watched with watering mouth, placed a slice on each of the biscuits, and passed them over.
 
"Splendid!" cried Stewart. "I don't know how to thank you. But at least I can pay you," and he dove into his pocket and produced a ten-mark piece—his last. The soldier shook his head. "It is for the whole squad," added Stewart, persuasively. "You will be needing tobacco some day, and this will come in handy!"
 
The soldier smiled, took the little coin, and placed it carefully in his pocket.
 
"You are right about the tobacco," he said. "I thank you."
 
He sat down again before the fire, while Stewart hastened to his companion and dropped to his knees beside her.
 
"See what I've got!" he cried. "Food!"
 
She opened her eyes, struggled to a sitting posture, and held out an eager hand. A moment later, they were both munching the sausage and biscuits as though they had never tasted anything so delicious—as, indeed, they never had!
 
"Oh, how good that was!" she said, when the last crumb was swallowed, and she waved her thanks to the watching group about the fire. "Remember," she added, in a lower tone, as she sank back upon her elbow, "the instant——"
 
She stopped, staring toward the tunnel, one hand grasping the blanket.
 
Stewart, following her look, saw the sentry stiffen, turn on his heel, and hold his rifle rigidly in front of him, as a tall figure, clad in a long gray coat and carrying an electric torch, stepped out of the darkness of the tunnel. At the same instant, the men about the fire sprang to their feet.
 
"Now!" cried the girl, and threw back the blanket.
 
In an instant, hand in hand, they had glided into the darkness.
Chapter XI. A New Trail Begins
 If he had been an ordinary rider, sitting heavily far back in the saddle, at the end of a long ride, Barry would either have been flung clear and smashed horribly against the rocks, or, more likely, he would have been entangled in the stirrups and crushed to death instantly by the weight of his horse; but he rode always lightly poised and when the mare pitched forward his feet were already clear of the stirrups. He landed, catlike, on hands and feet, unhurt.
 
It had been a long shot, a lucky hit even for a marksman of the sheriff's caliber, and now the six horsemen streamed over a distant hilltop and swept into the valley to take their quarry dead, or half dead, from his fall. However, that approaching danger was nothing in the eye of Barry. He ran to the fallen mare and caught her head in his arms. She ceased her struggles to rise as soon as he touched her and whinneyed softly. The left foreleg lay twisted horribly beneath her, broken. Grey Molly had run her last race, and as Barry kneeled, holding the brave head close to him, he groaned, and looked away from her eyes. It was only an instant of weakness, and when he turned to her again he was drawing his gun from its holster.
 
The beating hoofs of the posse as they raced towards him made a growing murmur through the clear air. Barry glanced towards them with a consummate loathing. They had killed a horse to stop a man, and to him it was more than murder. What harm had she done them except to carry her rider bravely and well? The tears of rage and sorrow which a child sheds welled into the eyes of Dan Barry. Every one of them had a hand in this horrible killing; was, to that half animal and half-childish nature, a murderer.
 
His chin was on his shoulder; the quiver of pain in her nostrils ended as he spoke; and while the fingers of his left hand trailed caressingly across her forehead, his right carried the muzzle to her temple.
 
“Brave Molly, good girl,” he whispered, “they'll pay for you a death for a death and a man for a hoss.” The yellow which had glinted in his eyes during the run was afire now. “It ain't far; only a step to go; and then you'll be where they ain't any saddles, nor any spurs to gall you, Molly, but just pastures that's green all year, and nothin' to do but loaf in the sun and smell the wind. Here's good luck to you, girl.”
 
His gun spoke sharp and short and he laid the limp head reverently on the ground.
 
It had all happened in very few seconds, and the posse was riding through the river, still a long shot off, when Barry drew his rifle from its case on the saddle. Moreover, the failing light which had made the sheriff's hit so much a matter of luck was now still dimmer, yet Barry snapped his gun to the shoulder and fired the instant the butt lay in the grove. For another moment nothing changed in the appearance of the riders, then a man leaned out of his saddle and fell full length in the water.
 
Around him his companions floundered, lifted and placed him on the bank, and then threw themselves from their horses to take shelter behind the first rocks they could find; they had no wish to take chances with a man who could snap-shoot like this in such a light, at such a distance. By the time they were in position their quarry had slipped out of sight and they had only the blackening boulders for targets.
 
“God amighty,” cried Ronicky Joe, “are you goin' to let that murderin' hound-dog get clear off, Pete? Boys, who's with me for a run at him?”
 
For it was Harry Fisher who had fallen and lay now on the wet bank with his arms flung wide and a red spot rimmed with purple in the center of his forehead; and Fisher was Ronicky Joe's partner.
 
“You lay where you are,” commanded the sheriff, and indeed there had been no rousing response to Ronicky Joe's appeal.
 
“You yaller quitters,” groaned Joe. “Give me a square chance and I'll tackle Vic Gregg alone day or night, on hoss or on foot. Are we five goin' to lay down to him?”
 
“If that was Vic Gregg,” answered the sheriff, slipping over the insult with perfect calm, “I wouldn't of told you to scatter for cover; but that ain't Vic.”
 
“Pete, what in hell are you drivin' at?”
 
“I say it ain't Vic,” said the sheriff. “Vic is a good man with a hoss and a good man with a gun, but he couldn't never ride like the gent over there in the rocks, and he couldn't shoot like him.”
 
He pointed, in confirmation, at the body of Harry Fisher.
 
“You can rush that hill if you want, but speakin' personal, I ain't ready to die.”
 
A thoughtful silence held the others until Sliver Waldron broke it with his deep bass. “You ain't far off, Pete. I done some thinkin' along them lines when I seen him standin' up there over the arroyo wavin' his hat at the bullets. Vic didn't never have the guts for that.”
 
All the lower valley was gray, dark in comparison with the bright peaks above it, before the sheriff rose from his place and led the posse towards the body of Grey Molly. There they found as much confirmation of Pete's theory as they needed, for Vic's silver-mounted saddle was known to all of them, and this was a plain affair which they found on the dead horse. Waldron pushed back his hat to scratch his head.
 
“Look at them eyes, boys,” he suggested. “Molly has been beatin' us all day and she looks like she's fightin' us still.”
 
The sheriff was not a man of very many words, and surely of little sentiment; perhaps it was the heat of the long chase which now made him take off his hat so that the air could reach his sweaty forehead. “Gents,” he said, “she lived game and she died game. But they ain't no use of wastin' that saddle. Take it off.”
 
And that was Grey Molly's epitaph.
 
They decided to head straight back for the nearest town with the body of Harry Fisher, and, fagged by the desperate riding of that day, they let their horses go with loose rein, at a walk. Darkness gathered; the last light faded from even the highest peaks; the last tinge of color dropped out of the sky as they climbed from the valley. Now and then one of the horses cleared its nostrils with a snort, but on the whole they went in perfect silence with the short grass silencing the hoofbeats, and never a word passed from man to man.
 
Beyond doubt, if it had not been for that same silence, if it had not been for the slowness with which they drifted through the dark, what follows could never have happened. They had crossed a hill, and descended into a very narrow ravine which came to so sharp a point that the horses had to be strung out in single file. The ravine twisted to the right and then the last man of the procession heard the sheriff call: “Halt, there! Up with your hands, or I'll drill you!” When they swung from side to side, craning their heads to look, they made out a shadowy horseman facing Pete head on. Then the sheriff's voice again: “Gregg, I'm considerable glad to meet up with you.”
 
If that meeting had taken place in any other spot probably Gregg would have taken his chance on escaping through the night, but in this narrow pass he could swing to neither side and before he could turn the brown horse entirely around the sheriff might pump him full of lead. They gathered in a solemn quiet around him; the irons were already upon his wrists.
 
“All right, boys,” he said, “you've got me, but you'll have to give in that you had all the luck.”
 
A moment after that sharp command in the familiar, dreaded voice of Pete Glass, Vic had been glad that the lone flight was over. Eventually this was bound to come. He would go back and face the law, and three men lived to swear that Blondy had gone after his gun first.
 
“Maybe luck,” said the sheriff. “How d' you come back this way?”
 
“Made a plumb circle,” chuckled Gregg. “Rode like a fool not carin' where I hit out for, and the end of it was that it was dark before I'd had sense to watch where the sun went down.”
 
“Kind of cheerful, ain't you?” cut in Ronicky Joe, and his voice was as dry as the crisping leaves in an autumn wind.
 
“They ain't any call for me to wear crepe yet,” answered Gregg. “Worst fool thing I ever done was to cut and run for it. The old Captain will tell you gents that Blondy went for his gun first—had it clean out of the leather before I touched mine.”
 
He paused, and the silence of those dark figures sank in upon him.
 
“I got to warn you,” said Pete Glass, “that what you say now can be used again you later on before the jury.”
 
“My God, boys,” burst out Vic, “d'you think I'm a plain, low-down, murderin' snake? Harry, ain't you got a word for me? Are you like the rest of 'em?”
 
No voice answered.
 
“Harry,” said Ronicky, “why don't you speak to him?”
 
It was a brutal thing to do, but Ronicky was never a gentle sort in his best moments; he scratched a match and held it so that under the spluttering light Gregg found himself staring into the face of Harry Fisher. And he could not turn his eyes away until the match burned down to Ronicky's finger tip and then dropped in a streak of red to the ground.
 
Then the sheriff spoke cold and hard.
 
“Partner,” he said, “in the old days, maybe your line of talk would do some good, but not now. You picked that fight with Blondy. You knew you was faster on the draw and Hansen didn't have a chance. He was the worst shot in Alder and everybody in Alder knew it. You picked that fight and you killed your man, and you're goin' to hang for it.”
 
Another hush; no murmur of assent or dissent.
 
“But they's one way out for you, Gregg, and I'm layin' it clear. We wanted you bad, and we got you; but they's another man we want a lot worse. A pile! Gregg, take me where I can find the gent what done for Harry Fisher and you'll never stand up in front of a jury. You got my word on that.”
Chapter XII. The Crisis
 Those mountains above the Barry cabin were, as he told Vic Gregg, inaccessible to men on horseback except by one path, yet there was a single class of travelers who roamed at will through far more difficult ground than this. Speaking in general, where a man can go a burro can go, and where a burro can go he usually manages to carry his pack. He crawls up a raged down-pitch of rocks that comes dangerously close to the perpendicular; he walks securely along a crumbling ledge with half his body over a thousand yards of emptiness. Therefore the prospectors with their burros have combed the worst mountains of the West and it was hardly a surprise to Kate Barry when she saw two men come down the steepest slope above the cabin with two little pack animals scrambling and sliding before them. It was still some time before nightfall, but the sun had dropped out of sight fully an hour ago and now the western mountains were blackening against a sky whose thin, clear blue grew yellow towards evening.
 
Against that dark mass of the mountainside, she could not make out the two travelers clearly, so she shaded her eyes and peered up, high up. The slope was so sheer that if one of the four figures lost footing it would come crashing to her very feet. When they saw her and shouted down the sound fell as clearly as if they had called from the cabin, yet they had a good half hour's labor between that greeting and the moment they came out on the level before Kate. From the instant they called she remained in motionless, deep thought, and when they came now into full view, she cried out joyously: “Buck, oh Buck!” and ran towards them. Even the burros stopped and the men stood statue-like; it is rarely enough that one finds a human being in those mountains, almost an act of Providence that lead to a house, and a miracle when the trail crosses the path of a friend. The prospectors came out of their daze with a shout and rushed to meet her. Each of them had her by a hand, wringing it; they talked all together in a storm of words.
 
“Kate, I'm dreamin'!—Dear old Buck!—Have you forgotten me?—Lee Haines! I should say not.—Don't pay any attention to him. Five years. And I've been hungerin' to see you all that—.—Where have you been?—Everywhere! but this is the best thing I've seen.—Come in.—Wait till we get these packs off the poor little devils.—Oh, I'm so glad to see you; so glad!—Hurry up, Lee. Your fingers asleep?—How long have you been out?—Five months.—Then you're hungry.—We've just ate.—But a piece of pie?—pie? I've been dreamin' of pie!”
 
A fire already burned in the big living-room of the cabin, for at this season, at such an altitude, the shadows were always cold, and around the fire they gathered, each of the men with half a huge pie before him. They were such as one might expect that mountain region to produce, big, gaunt, hard-muscled. They had gone unshaven for so long that their faces were clothed not with an unsightly stubble but with strong, short beard that gave them a certain grim dignity and made their eyes seem sunken. They were opposite types, which is usually the case when two men strike out together. Buck Daniels was black-haired, with an ugly, shrewd face and a suggestion of rather dangerous possibilities of swift action; but Lee Haines was a great bulk of a man, with tawny beard, handsome, in a leonine fashion, more poised than Daniels, fitted to crush. The sharp glance of Buck flitted here and there, in ten seconds he knew everything in the room; the steady blue eye of Lee Haines went leisurely from place to place and lingered; but both of them stared at Kate as if they could not have enough of her. They talked without pause while they ate. A stranger in the room would have sealed their lips in utter taciturnity, but here they sat with a friend, five months of loneliness and labor behind them, and they gossiped like girls.
 
Into the jangle of talk cut a thin, small voice from outside, a burst of laughter. Then: “Bart, you silly dog!” and Joan stood at the open door with her hand buried in the mane of the wolf-dog. The fork of Buck Daniels stopped halfway to his lips and Lee Haines straightened until the chair groaned.
 
They spoke together, hushed voices: “Kate!”
 
“Come here, Joan!” Her face glistened with pride, and Joan came forward with wide eyes, tugging Black Bart along in a reluctant progress.
 
“It ain't possible!” whispered Buck Daniels. “Honey, come here and shake hands with your Uncle Buck.” The gesture called forth deep throated warning from Bart, and he caught back his hand with a start.
 
“It's always that way,” said Kate, half amused, half vexed; “Bart won't let a soul touch her when Dan isn't home. Good old Bart, go away, you foolish dog! Don't you see these are friends?”
 
He cringed a little under the shadow of the hand which waved him off but his only answer was a silent baring of the teeth.
 
“You see how it is. I'm almost afraid to touch her myself when Dan's away; she and Bart bully me all day long.”
 
In the meantime the glance of Joan had cloyed itself with sufficient examination of the strangers, and now she turned back towards the door and the meadow beyond.
 
“Bart!” she called softly. The sharp ears of the dog quivered; he came to attention with a start. “Look! Get it for me!”
 
One loud scraping of his claws on the floor as he started, and Black Bart went like a bolt through the door with Joan scrambling after him, screaming with excitement; from the outside, they heard the cry of a frightened squirrel, and then its angry chattering from a place of safety up a tree.
 
“Shall I call her back again?” asked Kate.
 
“Not if Bart comes with her,” answered Lee Haines. “I've seen enough of him to last me a while.”
 
“Well, we'll have her to ourselves when Dan comes; of course Bart leaves her to tag around after Dan.”
 
“When is he comin' back?” asked Buck, with polite interest.
 
“Anytime. I don't know. But he's always here before it's completely dark.”
 
The glance of Buck Daniels kicked over to Lee Haines, exchanged meanings with him, and came back to Kate.
 
“Terrible sorry,” he said, “but I s'pose we'll have to be on our way before it's plumb dark.”
 
“Go so soon as that? Why, I won't let you.”
 
“I—” began Haines, fumbling for words.
 
“We got to get down in the valley before it's dark,” filled in Buck.
 
Suddenly she laughed, frankly, happily.
 
“I know what you mean, but Dan is changed; he isn't the same man he used to be.”
 
“Yes?” queried Buck, without conviction.
 
“You'll have to see him to believe; Buck, he doesn't even whistle any more.”
 
“What?”
 
“Only goes about singing, now.”
 
The two men exchanged glances of such astonishment that Kate could not help but notice and flush a little.
 
“Well,” murmured Buck, “Bart doesn't seem to have changed much from the old days.”
 
She laughed slowly, letting her mind run back through such happiness as they could not understand and when she looked up she seemed to debate whether or not it would be worth while to let them in on the delightful secret. The moment she dwelt on the burning logs they gazed at her and then to each other with utter amazement as if they sat in the same room with the dead come to life. No care of motherhood had marked her face, but on the white, even forehead was a sign of peace; and drifting over her hands and on the white apron across her lap the firelight pooled dim gold, the wealth of contentment.
 
“If you'd been here today you would have seen how changed he is. We had a man with us whom Dan had taken while he was running from a posse, wounded, and kept him here until he was well, and—”
 
“That's Dan,” murmured Lee Haines. “He's gold all through when a man's in trouble.”
 
“Shut up, Lee,” cut in Buck. He sat forward in his chair, drinking up her story.
 
“Go on.”
 
“This morning we saw the same posse skirting through the valley and knew that they were on the old trail. Dan sent Gregg over the hills and rode Vic's horse down so that the posse would mistake him, and he could lead them out of the way. I was afraid, terribly, I was afraid that if the posse got close and began shooting Dan would—”
 
She stopped; her eyes begged them to understand.
 
“Go on,” said Lee Haines, shuddering slightly. “I know what you mean.”
 
“But I watched him ride down the slope,” she cried joyously, “and I saw the posse close on him—almost on top of him when he reached the valley. I saw the flash of their guns. I saw them shoot. I wasn't afraid that Dan would be hurt, for he seems to wear a charm against bullets—I wasn't much afraid of that, but I dreaded to see him turn and go back through that posse like a storm. But—” she caught both hands to her breast and her bright face tilted up—“even when the bullets must have been whistling around him he didn't look back. He rode straight on and on, out of view, and I knew”—her voice broke with emotion—“oh, Buck, I knew that he had won, and I had won; that he was safe forever; that there was no danger of him ever slipping back into that terrible other self; I knew that I'd never again have to dream of that whistling in the wind; I knew that he was ours—Joan's and mine.”
 
“By God,” broke out Buck, “I'm happier than if you'd found a gold mine, Kate. It don't seem no ways—but if you seen that with your own eyes, it's possible true. He's changed.”
 
“I've been almost afraid to be happy all these years,” she said, “but now I want to sing and cry at the same time. My heart is so full that it's overflowing, Buck.”
 
She brushed the tears away and smiled at them.
 
“Tell me all about yourselves. Everything. You first, Lee. You've been longer away.”
 
He did not answer for a moment, but sat with his head fallen, watching her thoughtfully. Women had been the special curse in Lee Haines' life; they had driven him to the crime that sent him West into outlawry long years before; through women, as he himself foreboded, he would come at last to some sordid, petty end; but here sat the only one he had loved without question, without regret, purely and deeply, and as he watched her, more beautiful than she had been in her girlhood, it seemed, as he heard the fitful laughter of Joan outside, the old sorrow came storming up in him, and the sense of loss.
 
“What have I been doing?” he murmured at length. He shrugged away his last thoughts. “I drifted about for a while after the pardon came down from the governor. People knew me, you see, and what they knew about me didn't please them. Even today Jim Silent and Jim Silent's crew isn't forgotten. Then don't look at me like that, Kate; no, I played straight all the time—-then I ran into Buck and he and I had tried each other out, we had at least one thing in common”—here he looked at Buck and they both flushed—“and we made a partnership of it. We've been together five years now.”
 
“I knew you could break away, Lee. I used to tell you that.”
 
“You helped me more than you knew,” he said quietly.
 
She smiled and then turned to escape him. “And now you, Buck?”
 
“Since then we've made a bit of coin punching cows and we've blown it in again prospecting. Blown it in? Kate, we've shot enough powder to lift that mountain yonder but all we've got is color. You could gild the sky with what we've seen but we haven't washed enough dust to wear a hole in a tissue-paper pocket. I'll tell you the whole story. Lee packs a jinx with him. But—Haines, did you ever see a lion as big as that?”
 
The dimness of evening had grown rapidly through the room while they talked and now the light from the door was far less than the glow of the fire. The yellow flicker picked out a dozen pelts stretching as rugs on the floor or hanging along the wall; that to which Buck pointed was an enormous skin of a mountain lion stretched sidewise, for if it had been hung straight up a considerable portion of the tail must have dragged on the floor. Buck went to examine it. Presently he exclaimed in surprise and he passed his fingers over it as though searching for something.
 
“Where was it shot, Kate? I don't find nothin' but this cut that looks like his knife slipped when he was skinnin'.”
 
“It was a knife that killed it.”
 
“What!”
 
“Don't ask me about it; I see the picture of it in my dreams still. The lion had dragged the trap into a cave and Bart followed it. Dan went in pushing his rifle before him, but—when he tried to fire it jammed.”
 
“Yes?” they cried together.
 
“Don't ask me the rest!”
 
They would hardly have let her off so easily if it had not been for the entrance of Joan who had come back on account of the darkness. Black Bart went promptly to a corner of the hearth and lay down with his head on his paws and the little girl sat beside him watching the fire, her head leaning wearily on his shoulder. Kate went to the door.
 
“It's almost night,” she said. “Why isn't he here?”
 
“Buck, they couldn't have overtaken—”
 
She started. “Dan?”
 
Buck Daniels grinned reassuringly.
 
“Not unless his hoss is a pile of bones; if it has any heart in it, Dan'll run away from anything on four legs. No call for worryin', Kate. He's simply led 'em a long ways off and waited for evenin' before he doubled back. He'll come back right enough. If they didn't catch him that first run they'll never get the wind of him.”
 
It quieted her for a time, but as the minutes slipped away, as the darkness grew more and more heavy until a curtain of black fell across the open door, they could see that she was struggling to control her trouble, they could see her straining to catch some distant sound. Lee Haines began to talk valiantly, to beguile the waiting time, and Buck Daniels did his share with stories of their prospecting, but eventually more and more often silences came on the group. They began to watch the fire and they winced when a log crackled, or when the sap in a green place hissed. By degrees they pushed farther and farther back so that the light would not strike so fully upon them, for in some way it became difficult to meet each other's eyes.
 
Only Joan was perfectly at ease. She played for a time with the ears of Black Bart, or pried open his mouth and made him show the great white fangs, or scratched odd designs on the hearth with pieces of charcoal; but finally she lost interest in all these things and let her head lie on the rough pelt of the wolf-dog, sound asleep. The firelight made her hair a patch of gold.
 
Black Bart slept soundly, too, that is, as soundly as one of his nature could sleep, for every now and then one of his ears twitched, or he stirred a paw, or an eyelid quivered up. Yet they all started when he jumped from his sleep into full wakefulness; the motion made Joan sit up, rubbing her eyes, and Black Bart reached the center of the room noiselessly. He stood facing the door, motionless.
 
“It's Dan,” cried Kate. “Bart hears him! Good old Bart!”
 
The dog pointed up his nose, the hair about his neck bristled into a ruff, and out of his quaking body came a sound that seemed to moan and whimper from the distance at first, but drew nearer, louder, packed the room with terror, the long drawn howl of a wolf.
Chapter XIII. Equal Payment
 They knew what it meant; even Joan had heard the cry of the lone wolf hunting in the lean time of winter, and of all things sad, all things lonely, all things demoniacal, the howl of a wolf stands alone. Lee Haines reached for his gun, little Joan stood up silent on the hearth, but Kate and Buck Daniels sat listening with a sort of hungry terror, as the cry sobbed away to quiet. Then out of the mountains and the night came an answer so thin, so eerie, one might have said it was the voice of the mountains and white stars grown audible; it stole on the ear as the pulse of a heart comes to the consciousness.
 
Truly it was an answer to the cry of the wolf-dog, for in the slender compass it carried the same wail, the same unearthly quality with this great difference, that a thrilling happiness went through it, as if some one walked through the mountains and rejoiced in the unknown terrors. A sob formed in the throat of Kate and the wolf turned its head and looked at her, and the yellow of things that see in the night swam in its eyes. Lee Haines struck the arm of Buck Daniels.
 
“Buck, let's get clear of this. Let's start. He's coming.”
 
At the whisper Buck turned a livid face; one could see him gather his strength.
 
“I stick,” he said with difficulty, as though his lips were numb. “She'll need me now.”
 
Lee Haines stood in a moment's indecision but then settled back in his chair and gripped his hands together. They both sat watching the door as if the darkness were a magnet of inescapable horror. Only Joan, of all in that room, showed no fear after the first moment. Her face was blanched indeed, but she tilted it up now, smiling; she stole towards the door, but Kate caught the child and gathered her close with strangling force. Joan made no attempt to escape. “S-sh!” she cautioned, and raised a plump little forefinger. “Munner, don't you hear? Don't you like it?”
 
As if the sound had turned a corner, it broke all at once clearly over them in a rain of music; a man's whistling. It went out; it flooded about them again like beautiful, cold light. Once again it stopped, and now they sensed, rather than heard, a light, rapid, padding step that approached the cabin. Dan Barry stood in the door and in that shadowy place his eyes seemed luminous. He no longer whistled, but a spirit went from him which carried the same sense of the untamed, the wild happiness which died out with his smile as he looked around the room. The brim of his hat curved up, his neckerchief seemed to flutter a little. The wolf-dog reached the threshold in the same instant and stood looking steadily up into the face of the master.
 
“Daddy Dan!” cried Joan.
 
She had slipped from the nerveless arms of Kate and now ran towards her father, but here she faltered, there she stopped with her arms slowly falling back to her sides. He did not seem to see her, but looked past her, far beyond every one in the room as he walked to the wall and took down a bridle that hung on a peg. Kate laid her hands on the arms of the chair, but after the first effort to rise, her strength failed.
 
“Dan!” she said. It was only a whisper, a heart-stopping sound. “Dan!” Her voice rang, then her arms gathered to her, blindly, Joan, who had shrunk back. “What's happened?”
 
“Molly died.”
 
“Died.”
 
“They broke her leg.”
 
“The posse!”
 
“With a long shot.”
 
“What are you going to do!”
 
“Get Satan. Go for a ride.”
 
“Where?”
 
He looked about him, troubled, and then frowned. “I dunno. Out yonder.”
 
He waved his arm. Black Bart followed the turn of the master's body, and switching around in front continued to stare up into Dan's face.
 
“You're going back after the posse?”
 
“No, I'm done with them.”
 
“What do you mean?”
 
“They paid for Grey Molly.”
 
“You shot one of their—horses?”
 
“A man.”
 
“God help us!” Then life came to her; she sprang up and ran between him and the door. “You shan't go. If you love me!” She was only inches from Black Bart, and the big animal showed his teeth in silent hate.
 
“Kate, I'm goin'. Don't stand in the door.”
 
Joan, slipping around Bart, stood clinging to the skirts of her mother and watched the face of Dan, fascinated, silent.
 
“Tell me where you're going. Tell me when you're coming back. Dan, for pity!”
 
Loud as a trumpet, a horse neighed from the corral. Dan had stood with an uncertain face, but now he smiled.
 
“D'you hear? I got to go!”
 
“I heard Satan whinney. But what does that mean? How does that make you go?”
 
“Somewhere,” he murmured, “something's happening. I felt it on the wind when I was comin' up the pass.”
 
“If you—oh, Dan, you're breaking my heart!”
 
“Stand out of the door.”
 
“Wait till the morning.”
 
“Don't you see I can't wait?”
 
“One hour, ten minutes. Buck—Lee Haines—”
 
She could not finish, but Buck Daniels stepped closer, trying to make a smile grow on his ashen face.
 
“Another minute, Dan, and I'll tell a man you've forgotten me.”
 
Barry pivoted suddenly as though uneasy at finding something behind him, and Daniels winced.
 
“Hello, Buck. Didn't see you was here. Lee Haines? Lee, this is fine.”
 
He passed from one to the other and his handshake was only the elusive passage of his fingers through their palms. Haines shrugged his shoulders to get rid of a weight that clung to him; a touch of color came back to his face.
 
“Look here, Dan. If you're afraid that gang may trail you here and start raising the devil—how many are there?”
 
“Five.”
 
“I'm as good with a gun as I ever was in the old days. So is Buck. Partner, let's make the show down together. Stick here with Kate and Joan and Buck and I will help you hold the fort. Don't look at me like that. I mean it. Do you think I've forgotten what you did for me that night in Elkhead? Not in a thousand years. Dan, I'd rather make my last play here than any other place in the world. Let 'em come! We'll salt them down and plant them where they won't grow.”
 
As he talked the pallor quite left him, and the fighting fire blazed in his eyes, he stood lion-like, his feet spread apart as if to meet a shock, his tawny head thrown back, and there was about him a hair-trigger sensitiveness, in spite of his bulk, a nervousness of hand and coldness of glance which characterizes the gun-fighter. Buck Daniels stepped closer, without a word, but one felt that he also had walked into the alliance. As Barry watched them the yellow which swirled in his eyes flickered away for a moment.
 
“Why, gents,” he murmured, “they ain't any call for trouble. The posse? What's that got to do with me? Our accounts are all squared up.”
 
The two stared dumbly.
 
“They killed Grey Molly; I killed one of them.”
 
“A horse—for a man?” repeated Lee Haines, breathing hard.
 
“A life for a life,” said Dan simply. “They got no call for complainin'.”
 
Glances of wonder, glances of meaning, flashed back and forth from Haines to Buck.
 
“Well, then,” said the latter, and he took in Kate with a caution from the corner of his eye, “if that's the case, let's sit down and chin for a minute.”
 
Dan stood with his head bowed a little, frowning; two forces pulled him, and Kate leaned against the wall off in the shadow with her eyes closed, waiting, waiting, waiting through the crisis.
 
“I'd like to stay and chin with you, Buck—but, I got to be off. Out there—in the night—something may happen before mornin'.” Black Bart licked the hand of the master and whined. “Easy, boy. We're startin'.”
 
“But the night's just beginnin',” said Buck Daniels genially. “You got a world of time before you, and with Satan to fall back on you don't have to count your minutes. Pull up a chair beside me, Dan, and—”
 
The latter shook his head, decided. “Buck, I can't do it. Just to sit here”—he looked about him—“makes me feel sort of choked. Them walls are as close—as a coffin.”
 
He was already turning; Kate straightened in the shadow, desperate.
 
“As a matter of fact, Dan,” said Lee Haines, suddenly, “we need your help badly.”
 
“Help?”
 
The heart of Kate stood in her eyes as she looked at Lee Haines.
 
“Sit down a minute, Dan, and I'll tell you about it.”
 
Barry slipped into a chair which he had pulled to one side—so that the back of it was towards the wall, and every one in the room was before him.
 
 
Chapter XIV. Suspense
 The help which Lee Haines wanted, it turned out, was guidance across a difficult stretch of country which he and Buck Daniels wanted to prospect, and while he talked Barry listened uneasily. It was constitutionally impossible for him to say no when a favor was asked of him, and Haines counted heavily on that characteristic; in the meantime Black Bart lay on the hearth with his wistful eyes turned steadily up to the master; and Buck Daniels went to Kate on the farther side of the room. She sat quivering, alternately crushing and soothing Joan with the strength of her caresses. Buck drew a chair close, with his back half towards the fire.
 
“Turn around a little, Kate,” he cautioned. “Don't let Dan see your face.”
 
She obeyed him automatically.
 
“Is there a hope, Buck? What have I done to deserve this? I don't want to live; I want to die! I want to die!”
 
“Steady, steady!” he cut in, and his face was working. “If you keep on like this you'll bust down in a minute or two. And you know what tears do to Dan; he'll be out of this house like a scairt coyote. Brace up!”
 
She struggled and won a partial control.
 
“I'm fighting hard, Buck.”
 
“Fight harder still. You ought to know him better than I do. When he's like this it drives him wild to have other folks thinkin' about him.”
 
He looked over to Dan. In spite of the bowed head of the latter as he listened to Haines yarning he gave an impression of electric awareness to all that was around him.
 
“Talk soft,” whispered Buck. “Maybe he knows we're talkin' about him.”
 
He raised his voice out of the whisper, breaking in on a sentence about Joan, as if this were the tenor of their talk. Then he lowered his tone again.
 
“Think quick. Talk soft. Do you want Dan kept here?”
 
“For God's sake, yes.”
 
“Suppose the posse gets him here?”
 
“We musn't dodge the law.”
 
They were gauging their voices with the closest precision. Talking like this so close to Barry was like dancing among flasks of nitroglycerine. Once, and once only, Lee Haines cast a desperate eye across to them, begging them to come to his rescue, then he went back to his talk with Dan, raising his voice to shelter the conference of the other two.
 
“If they come, he'll fight.”
 
“No, he isn't at the fighting pitch yet, I know!”
 
“If you're wrong they'll be dead men here.”
 
“He sees no difference between the death of a horse and the death of a man. He feels that the law has no score against him. He'll go quietly.”
 
“And we'll find ways of fightin' the law?”
 
“Yes, but it needs money.”
 
“I've got a stake.”
 
“God bless you, Buck.”
 
“Take my advice.”
 
“What?”
 
“Let him go now.”
 
She glanced at him wildly.
 
“Kate, he's gone already.”
 
“No, no, no!”
 
“I say he's gone. Look at his eyes.”
 
“I don't dare.”
 
“The yaller is comin' up in 'em. He's wild again.” She shook her head in mute agony. Buck Daniels groaned, softly.
 
“Then they's goin' to be a small-sized hell started around this cabin before mornin'.”
 
He got up and went slowly back towards the fire. Lee Haines was talking steadily, leisurely, going round and round his subject again and again, and Barry listened with bowed head, but his eyes were fixed upon those of the wolf-dog at his feet. When he grew restless, Haines chained him to the chair with some direct question, yet it was a hard game to play. All this time the posse might be gathering around the cabin; and the forehead of Haines whitened and glistened with sweat. His voice was the only living thing in the cabin, after a time, sketching his imaginary plans for the benefit of Barry—his voice and the wistful eyes of Joan which kept steadily on Daddy Dan. Something has come between them and lifted a barrier which she could not understand, and with all her aching child's heart she wondered at it.
 
For the second time that evening the wolf stood up on the hearth, but he was not yet on his feet before Dan was out of his chair and standing close to the wall, where the shadows swallowed him. Lee Haines sat with his lips frozen on the next unspoken word. Two shadows, whose feet made no sound, Black Bart and Dan glided to the door and peered into the night—then Barry went back, step by step, until his back was once more to the wall. Not until that instant did the others hear. It was a step which approached behind the house; a loud rap at the back door.
 
It was the very loudness of the knock which made Kate draw a breath of relief; if it had been a stealthy tap she would have screamed. He who rapped did not wait for an answer; they heard the door creak open, the sound of a heavy man's step.
 
“It's Vic,” said Dan quietly, and then the door opened which led into the kitchen and the tall form of Gregg entered. He paused there.
 
“Here I am again, ma'am.”
 
“Good evening,” she answered faintly.
 
He cleared his throat, embarrassed.
 
“Darned if I didn't play a fool game today—hello, Dan.”
 
The other nodded.
 
“Rode in a plumb circle and come back where I started.” He laughed, and the laughter broke off a little shortly. He stepped to the wall and hung up his bridle on its peg, which is the immemorial manner of asking hospitality in the mountain-desert. “Hope I ain't puttin' you out, Kate. I see you got company.”
 
She started, recalled from her thoughts.
 
“Excuse me, Vic. Vic Gregg, Buck Daniels, Lee Haines.”
 
They shook hands, and Vic detained Haines a moment.
 
“Seems to me I've heard of you, Haines.”
 
“Maybe.”
 
Gregg looked at the big man narrowly, and then swung back towards Dan. He knew many things, now. Lee Haines—yes, that was the name. One of the crew who followed Jim Silent; and Dan Barry? What a fool he had been not to remember! It was Dan Barry who had gone on the trail of Silent's gang and hounded it to death; Lee Haines alone had been spared. Yes, half a dozen years before the mountain-folk had heard that story, a wild and improbable one. It fitted in with what Pete Glass had told him of the shooting of Harry Fisher; it explained a great deal which had mystified him since he first met Barry; it made the thing he had come to do at once easier and harder.
 
“I s'pose Molly showed a clean pair of heels to the whole lot of 'em?” he said to Dan.
 
“She's dead.”
 
“Dead?” His astonishment was well enough affected. “God amighty, Dan, not Grey Molly—my hoss?”
 
“Dead. I shot her.”
 
Vic gasped. “You?”
 
“They'd busted her leg. I put her out of pain.”
 
Gregg dropped into a chair. It was not altogether an affectation, not altogether a piece of skilful acting now, for though the sheriff had told him all that happened he had not had a chance to feel the truth; but now it swept over him, all her tricks, all her deviltry, all that long companionship. His head bowed.
 
No smile touched the faces of the others in the room, but a reverent silence fell on the room. Then that figure among the shadows moved out, stepped to the side of Vic, and a light hand rested on his shoulder. The other looked up, haggard.
 
“She's gone, partner,” Dan said gently, “but she's paid for.”
 
“Paid for? Dan, they ain't any money could pay me back for Grey Molly.”
 
“I know; I know! Not that way, but there was a life given for a life.”
 
“Eh?”
 
“One man died for Molly.”
 
As the meaning came home to Gregg he blinked, and then, looking up, he found a change in the eyes of Barry, for they seemed to be lighted from within coldly, and his glance went down to the very bottom of Vic's soul, probing. It was only an instant, a thing of which Gregg could not make sure, and then Dan slipped back into his place among the shadows by the wall. But a chill sense of guilt, a premonition of danger, stayed in Gregg. The palms of his hands grew moist.
 
 
Chapter XV. Seven For One
 Dangerous men were no novelty for Gregg. He had lived with them, worked with them, as hard-fisted himself as any, and as ready for trouble, but the man of the mountain-desert has a peculiar dread for the practiced, known gun-fighter. In the days of the rapier when the art of fence grew so complicated that half a life was needed for its mastery, men would as soon commit suicide as ruffle it with an assured duellist; and the man of the mountain-desert has a similar respect for those who are born, it might be said, gun in hand. There was ample reason for the prickling in his scalp, Vic felt, for here he sat on an errand of consummate danger with three of these deadly fighters. Two of them he knew by name and repute, however dimly, and as for Buck Daniels, unless all signs failed the dark, sharp-eyed fellow was hardly less grim than the others. Vic gauged the three one by one. Daniels might be dreaded for an outburst of wild temper and in that moment he could be as terrible as any. Lee Haines would fight coolly, his blue eyes never clouded by passion, for that was his repute as the right hand man of Jim Silent, in the days when Jim had been a terrible, half-legendary figure. One felt that same quiet strength as the tawny haired man talked to Barry now; his voice was a smooth, deep current. But as for Barry himself, Gregg could not compute the factors which entered into the man. By all outward seeming that slender, half-timid figure was not a tithe of the force which either of the others represented, but out of the past Gregg's memory gathered more and more details, clear and clearer, of the wolf-dog, the black stallion, and the whistling man who tracked down Silent—“Whistling Dan” Barry; that was what they called him, sometimes. Nothing was definite in the mind of Gregg. The stories consisted of patched details, heard here and there at third or fourth hand, but he remembered one epic incident in which Barry had ridden, so rumor told, into the very heart of Elkhead, taken from the jail this very man, this Lee Haines, and carried him through the cordon of every armed man in Elkhead. And there was another picture, dimmer still, which an eye witness had painted: of how, at an appointed hour, Barry met Jim Silent and killed him.
 
Out of these thoughts he glanced again at the man in the shadow, half expecting to find his host swollen to giant size. Instead, he found the same meager form, the same old suggestion of youth which would not age, the same pale hands, of almost feminine litheness. Lee Haines talked on—about a porphyry dyke somewhere to the north—a ledge to be found in the space of ten thousand square miles—a list of vague clues—an appeal for Barry to help them find it—and Barry was held listening though ever seeming to drift, or about to drift, towards the door. Black Bart lay facing his master, and his snaky head followed every movement. Kate sat where the firelight barely touched on her, and in her arms she held Joan, whose face and great bright eyes were turned towards Daddy Dan. All things in the room centered on the place where the man sat by the wall, and the sense of something impending swept over Gregg; then a wild fear—did they know the danger outside? He must make conversation; he turned to Kate, but at the same moment the voice of Buck Daniels beside him, close.
 
“I know how you feel, old man. I remember an old bay hoss of mine, a Morgan hoss, and when he died I grieved for near onto a year, mostly. He wasn't much of a hoss to look at, too long coupled, you'd say, and his legs was short, but he got about like a coyote and when he sat down on a rope you couldn't budge him with a team of Percherons. That's how good he was! When he was a four year old I was cutting out yearlin's with him, and how—”
 
The loud, cheerful tone fell away to a confidential murmur, Daniels leaned closer, with a smile of prospective humor, but the words which came to Gregg were: “Partner, if I was you I'd get up and git and I wouldn't stop till I put a hell of a long ways between me and this cabin!”
 
It spoke well of Vic's nerve that no start betrayed him. He bowed his head a little, as though to catch the trend of the jolly story better, nodding.
 
“What's wrong?” he muttered back.
 
“Barry's watchin' you out of the shadow.”
 
Then: “You fool, don't look!”
 
But there was method in Vic's raising his head. He threw it back and broke into laughter, but while he laughed he searched the shadow by the wall where Dan sat, and he felt glimmering eyes fixed steadily upon him. He dropped his head again, as if to hear more.
 
“What's it mean, Daniels?”
 
“You ought to know. I don't. But he don't mean you no good. He's lookin' at you too steady. If I was you—”
 
Through the whisper of Buck, through the loud, steady talk of Lee Haines, cut the voice of Barry.
 
“Vic!”
 
The latter looked up and found that Barry was standing just within the glow of the hearth-light and something about him made Gregg's heart shrink.
 
“Vic, how much did they pay you?”
 
He tried to answer; he would have given ten years of life to have his voice under control for an instant; but his tongue froze. He knew that every one had turned toward him and he tried to smile, look unconcerned, but in spite of himself his eyes were wide, fixed, and he felt that they could stare into the bottom of his soul and see the guilt.
 
“How much?”
 
Then his voice came, but he could have groaned when he heard its crazily shaken, shrill sound.
 
“What d'you mean, Dan?”
 
The other smiled and Gregg added hastily: “If you want me to be movin' along, Dan, of course you're the doctor.”
 
“How much did they pay?” repeated the quiet, inexorable voice.
 
He could have stood that, even without much fear, for no matter how terrible the man might be in action his hands were tied in his own house; but now Kate spoke: “Vic, what have you done?”
 
Then it came, in a flood. Hot shame rolled through him and the words burst out:
 
“I'm a yaller houn'-dog, a sneakin' no-good cur! Dan, you're right. I've sold you. They're out there, all of 'em, waitin' in the rocks. For God's sake take my gun and pump me full of lead!”
 
He threw his arms out, clear of his holster and turned that Barry might draw his revolver. Vaguely he knew that Haines and Buck had drawn swiftly close to him from either side; vaguely he heard the cry of Kate; but all that he clearly understood was the merciless, unmoved face of Barry. It was pretense; with all his being he wanted to die, but when Barry made no move to strike he turned desperately to the others.
 
“Do the job for him. He saved my life and then I used it to sell him. Daniels, Haines, I got no use for livin'.”
 
“Vic,” he said, “take—this!—and march to your friends outside; and when you get through them, plant a forty-five slug in your own dirty heart and then rot.” Haines held out his gun with a gesture of contempt.
 
But Kate slipped in front of him, white and anguish.
 
“It was the girl you told me about, Vic?” she said. “You did it to get back to her?”
 
He dropped his head.
 
“Dan, let him go!”
 
“I got no thought of usin' him.”
 
“Why not?” cried Vic suddenly. “I'll do the way Haines said. Or else let me stay here and fight 'em off with you. Dan, for God's sake give me one chance to make good.”
 
It was like talking to a face of stone.
 
“The door's open for you, and waitin'. One thing before you go. That's the same gang you told me about before? Ronicky Joe, Harry Fisher, Gus Reeve, Mat Henshaw, Sliver Waldron and Pete Glass?”
 
“Harry Fisher's dead, Dan, if you'll give me one fightin' chance to play square now—”
 
“Tell 'em that I know 'em. Tell 'em one thing more. I thought Grey Molly was worth only one man. But I was wrong. They've done me dirt and played crooked. They come huntin' me—with a decoy. Now tell 'em from me that Grey Molly is worth seven men, and she's goin' to be paid for in full.”
 
He stepped to the wall and took down the bridle which Vic had hung there.
 
“I guess you'll be needin' this?”
 
It ended all talk; it even seemed to Gregg that as soon as he received the bridle from the hand of Barry the truce ended with a sudden period and war began. He turned slowly away.
Chapter XVI. Man-Hunting
 As Vic Gregg left the house, the new moon peered at him over a black mountain-top, a sickle of white with a half imaginary line rounding the rest of the circle, and to the shaken mind of Vic it seemed as if a ghostly spectator had come out to watch the tragedy among the peaks. At the line of the rocks the sheriff spoke.
 
“Gregg, you've busted your contract. You didn't bring him out.”
 
Vic threw his revolver on the ground.
 
“I bust the rest of it here and now. I'm through. Put on your irons and take me back. Hang me and be damned to you, but I'll do no more to double-cross him.”
 
Sliver Waldron drew from his pocket something which jangled faintly, but the sheriff stopped him with a word. He sat up behind his rock.
 
“I got an idea, Gregg, that you've finished up your job and double-crossed us! Does he know that I'm out here? Sit down there out of sight.”
 
“I'll do that,” said Gregg, obeying, “because you got the right to make me, but you ain't got the right to make me talk, and nothin' this side of hell can pry a word out of me!”
 
The sheriff drew down his brows until his eyes were merely cavities of blackness. Very tenderly he fondled the rifle-butt which lay across his knees, and never in the mountain-desert had there been a more humbly unpretentious figure of a man.
 
He said: “Vic, I been thinkin' that you had the man-sized makin's of a skunk, but I'm considerable glad to see I've judged you wrong. Sit quiet here. I ain't goin' to put no irons on you if you give me your parole.”
 
“I'll see you in hell before I give you nothin'. I was a man, or a partways man, till I met up with you tonight, and now I'm a houn'-dog that's done my partner dirt! God amighty, what made me do it?”
 
He beat his knuckles against his forehead.
 
“What you've done you can't undo,” answered the sheriff. “Vic, I've seen gents do considerable worse than you've done and come clean afterwards. You're goin' to get off for what you've done to Blondy, and you're goin' to live straight afterwards. You're goin' to get married and you're goin' to play white. Why, man, I had to use you as far as I could. But you think I wanted you to bring me out Barry? You couldn't look Betty square in the face if you'd done what you set out to do. Now, I ain't pressin' you, but I done some scouting while you was away, and I heard four men's voices in the house. Can you tell me who's there?”
 
“You've played square, Pete,” answered Vic hoarsely, “and I'll do my part. Go down and get on your hosses and ride like hell; because in ten minutes you're goin' to have three bad ones around your necks.”
 
A mutter came from the rest of the posse, for this was rather more than they had planned ahead. The sheriff, however, only sighed, and as the moonlight increased Vic could see that he was deeply, childishly contented, for in the heart of the little dusty man there was that inextinguishable spark, the love of battle. Chance had thrown him on the side of the law, but sooner or later dull times were sure to come and then Pete Glass would cut out work of his own making go bad. The love of the man-trail is a passion that works in two ways, and they who begin by hunting will in the end be the hunted; the mountain-desert is filled with such histories.
 
“Three to five,” said the sheriff, “sounds more interestin', Vic.”
 
A sudden passion to destroy that assured calm rose in Gregg.
 
“Three common men might make you a game,” he said, glowering, “but them ain't common ones. One of 'em I don't know, but he has a damned nervous hand. Another is Lee Haines!”
 
He had succeeded in part, at least. The sheriff sat bolt erect; he seemed to be hearing distant music.
 
“Lee Haines!” he murmured. “That was Jim Silent's man. They say he was as fast with a gun as Jim himself.” He sighed again. “They's nothing like a big man, Vic, to fill your sights.”
 
“Daniels and Haines, suppose you count them off agin' the rest of your gang, Pete. That leaves Barry for you.” He grinned maliciously. “D'you know what Barry it is?”
 
“It's a kind of common name, Vic.”
 
“Pete, have you heard of Whistlin' Dan?”
 
No doubt about it, he had burst the confidence of the sheriff into fragments. The little man began to pant and even in the dim light Vic could see that his face was working.
 
“Him!” he said at length. And then: “I might of knowed! Him!” He leaned closer. “Keep it to yourself, Vic, or you'll have the rest of the boys runnin' for cover before the fun begins.”
 
He snuggled a little closer to his rock and turned his head towards the house.
 
“Him!” he said again.
 
Columbus, when he saw the land of his dream wavering blue in the distance, might have hailed it with such a heart-filling whisper, and Vic knew that when these two met, these two slender, small men—with the uneasy hands, there would be a battle whose fame would ring from range to range.
 
“If they was only a bit more light,” muttered the sheriff. “My God, Vic, why ain't the moon jest a mite nearer the full!”
 
After that, not a word for a long time until the lights in the house were suddenly extinguished.
 
“So they won't show up agin no background when they make their run,” murmured the sheriff. He pushed up his hat brim so that it covered his eyes more perfectly. “Boys, get ready. They're comin' now!”
 
Mat Henshaw took up the word, and repeated it, and the whisper ran down the line of men who lay irregularly among the rocks, until at last Sliver Waldron brought it to a stop with a deep murmur. Not even a whisper could altogether disguise his booming bass. It seemed to Vic Gregg that the air about him grew more tense; his arm muscles commenced to ache from the gripping of his hands. Then a door creaked—they could tell the indubitable sound as if there were a light to see it swing cautiously wide.
 
“They're goin' out the back way,” interpreted the sheriff, “but they'll come around in front. They ain't any other way they can get out of here. Pass that down the line, Mat.”
 
Before the whisper had trailed out half its course, a woman screamed in the house. It sent a jag of lightning through the brain of Vic Gregg; he started up.
 
“Get down,” commanded the sheriff 'curtly. “Or they'll plant you.”
 
“For God's sake, Pete, he's killin' his wife—an'—he's gone mad—I seen it comin' in his eyes!”
 
“Shut up,” muttered Glass, “an' listen.”
 
A pulse of sound floated out to them, and stopped the breath of Gregg; it was a deep, stifled sobbing.
 
“She's begged him to stay with her; he's gone,” said the sheriff. “Now it'll come quick.”
 
But the sheriff was wrong. There was not a sound, not a sign of a rush.
 
Presently: “What sort of a lass is she, Gregg?”
 
“All yaller hair, Pete, and the softes' blue eyes you ever see.”
 
The sheriff made no answer, but Vic saw the little bony hand tense about the barrel of the rifle. Still that utter quiet, with the pulse of the sobbing lying like a weight upon the air, and the horror of the waiting mounted and grew, like peak upon peak before the eyes of the climber.
 
“Watch for 'em sneakin' up on us through the rocks. Watch for 'em close, lads. It ain't goin' to be a rush.”
 
Once more the sibilant murmur ran down the line, and the voice of Sliver Waldron brought it faintly to a period.
 
“Three of 'em,” continued the sheriff, “and most likely they'll come at us three ways.”
 
Through the shadow Vic watched the lips of Glass work and caught the end of his soft murmur to himself: “.... all three!”
 
He understood; the sheriff had offered up a deep prayer that all three might fall by his gun.
 
Up from the farther end of the line the whisper ran lightly, swiftly, with a stammer of haste in it: “To the right!”
 
Ay, there to the right, gliding from the corner of the house, went a dark form, and then another, and disappeared among the rocks. They had offered not enough target for even chance shooting.
 
“Hold for close range” ordered the sheriff, and the order was repeated. However much he might wish to win all the glory of the fray, the sheriff took no chances—threw none of his odds away. He was a methodical man.
 
A slight patter caught the ear of Vic, like the running of many small children over a heavy carpet, and then two shades blew around the side of the house, one small and scudding close to the ground, the other vastly larger—a man on horseback. It seemed a naked horse at first, so close to the back did the rider lean, and before Vic could see clearly the vision burst on them all. Several things kept shots from being fired earlier.
 
The first alarm had called attention to the opposite side of the house from that on which the rider appeared; then, the moon gave only a vague, treacherous light, and the black horse blended into it—the grass lightened the fall of his racing feet.
 
Like a ship driving through a fog they rushed into view, the black stallion, and Bart fleeting in front, and the surprise was complete. Vic could see it work even in the sheriff, for the latter, having his rifle trained towards his right jerked it about with a short curse and blazed at the new target, again, again, and the line of the posse joined the fire. Before the crack of their guns went from the ears of Vic, long before the echoes bellowed back from the hills, Satan leaped high up. Perhaps that change of position saved both it and its rider. Straight across the pale moon drove the body with head stretched forth, ears back, feet gathered close—a winged horse with a buoyant figure upon it. It cleared a five foot rock, and rushed instantly out of view among the boulders. The fugitive had fired only one shot, and that when the stallion was at the crest of its leap.
 
 
Chapter XVII. The Second Man
 The sheriff was on his feet, whining with eagerness and with the rest of his men he sent a shower of lead splashing vainly into the deeper night beside the mountain, where the path wound down.
 
“It's done! Hold up, lads!” called Pete Glass. “He's beat us!”
 
The firing ceased, and they heard the rush of the hoofs along the graveled slope and the clanging on rocks.
 
“It's done,” repeated the sheriff. “How?”
 
And he stood staring blankly, with a touch or horror in his face.
 
“By God, Mat's plugged.”
 
“Mat Henshaw? Wha—?”
 
“Clean through the head.”
 
He lay in an oddly twisted heap, as though every bone in his body were broken, and when they drew him about they found the red mark in his forehead and even made out the dull surprise in his set face. There had been no pain in that death, the second for the sake of Grey Molly.
 
“The other two!” said the sheriff, more to himself than to Vic, who stood beside him.
 
“Easy, Pete,” he cautioned. “You got nothin' agin Haines and Daniels.”
 
The sheriff flashed at him that hungry, baffled glance.
 
“Maybe I can find something. You Gregg, keep your mouth shut and stand back. Halloo!”
 
He sent a long call quavering between the lonely mountains.
 
“You yonder—Lee Haines! D'you give up to the law?”
 
A burst of savage laughter flung back at him, and then: “Why the hell should I?”
 
“Haines, I give you fair warnin'! For resistin' the law and interferin', I ask you, do you surrender?”
 
“Who are you?”
 
The big voice fairly swallowed the rather shrill tone of the sheriff.
 
“I'm sheriff Pete Glass.”
 
“You lie. Whoever heard of a sheriff come sneakin' round like a coyote lookin' for dead meat?”
 
Pete Glass grinned with rage.
 
“Haines, you ain't much better'n spoiled meat if you keep back. I gave you till I count ten—”
 
“Why, you bob-tailed skunk,” shouted a new voice. “You bone-spavined, pink-eyed rat-catcher,” continued this very particular describer, “what have you got on us? Come out and dicker and we'll do the same!”
 
The sheriff sighed, softly, deeply.
 
“I thought maybe they wouldn't get down to talk,” he murmured. But since the last chance for a battle was gone, he stepped fearlessly from behind his rock and advanced into the open. Two tall figures came to meet him.
 
“Now,” said Lee Haines, stalking forward. “One bad move, just the glint of a single gun from the rest of you sheep thieves, and I'll tame your pet sheriff and send him to hell for a model.”
 
They halted, close to each other, the two big men, Haines in the front, and the sheriff.
 
“You're Lee Haines?”
 
“You've named me.”
 
“And you're Buck Daniels?”
 
“That's me.”
 
“Gents, you've resisted an officer of the law in the act of makin' an arrest. I s'pose you know what that means?”
 
Big Lee Haines laughed.
 
“Don't start a bluff, sheriff. I know a bit about the law.”
 
“Maybe by experience?”
 
It was an odd thing to watch the three, every one of them a practiced fighter, every one of them primed for trouble, but each ostentatiously keeping his hands away from the holsters.
 
“What we might have done if we had come to a pinch,” said Haines, “is one thing, and what we did do is another. Barry was started and off before we had a chance to show teeth, my friend, and you never even caught the flash of our guns. If he'd waited but he didn't. There's nothing left for us to do except say good-by.”
 
The little dusty man stroked his moustaches thoughtfully. He had gone out there hoping against hope that his chance might come—to trick the two into violence, even to start an arrest for reasons which he knew his posse would swear to; but it must be borne in mind that Pete Glass was a careful man by instinct. Taking in probable speed of hand and a thousand other details at a glance, Pete sensed the danger of these two and felt in his heart of hearts that he was more than master of either of them, considered alone; better than Buck Daniels by an almost safe margin of steadiness; better than Lee Haines by a flickering instant of speed. Had either of them alone faced him, he would have taken his chance, perhaps, to kill or be killed, for the long trail and the escape had fanned that spark within him to a cold, hungry fire; but to attempt a play with both at the same time was death, and he knew it. Seeing that the game was up, he laid his cards on the table with characteristic frankness.
 
“Gents,” he said, “I reckon you've come clean with me. You ain't my meat and I ain't goin' to clutter up your way. Besides”—even in the dull moonshine they caught the humorous glint of his eyes—“a friend is a friend, and I'll say I'm glad that you didn't step into the shady side of the law while Barry was gettin' away.”
 
No one could know what it cost Pete Glass to be genial at that instant, for this night he felt that he had just missed the great moment which he had yearned for since the day when he learned to love the kick of a six-shooter against the heel of his hand. It was the desire to meet face to face one whose metal of will and mind was equal to his own, whose nerves were electric energies perfectly under command, whose muscles were fine spun steel. He had gone half a lifetime on the trail of fighters and always he had known that when the crisis came his hand would be the swifter, his eyes the more steady; the trailing was a delight always, but the actual kill was a matter of slaughter rather than a game of hazard. Only the rider of the black stallion had given him the sense of equal power, and his whole soul had risen for the great chance of All. That chance was gone; he pushed the thought of it away—for the time—and turned back to the business at hand.
 
“They's only one thing,” he went on. “Sliver! Ronicky! Step along, gents, and we'll have a look at the insides of that house.”
 
“Steady!” broke in Haines. He barred the path to the front door. “Sheriff, you don't know me, but I'm going to ask you to take my word for what's in that house.”
 
Glass swept him with a look of a new nature.
 
“I got an idea your word might do. Well, what's in the house?”
 
“A little five-year-old girl and her mother; nothing else worth seeing.”
 
“Nothing else,” considered the sheriff, “but that's quite a lot. Maybe his wife could tell me where he's going? Give me an idea where I might call on him?”
 
“Partner, you can't see her.”
 
“Can't?”
 
“No, by God!”
 
“H-m-m!” murmured the sheriff. He watched the big man plant himself, swaying a little on his feet as though poising for action, and beside him a slightly smaller figure not less determined.
 
“That girl in there is old man Cumberlan's daughter,” said Daniels, “and no matter what her—what Dan Barry may be, Kate Cumberland is white folks.”
 
The sheriff remembered what Vic had said of yellow hair and soft blue eyes.
 
“Leastways,” he said, “she seems to have a sort of way with the men.”
 
“Sheriff you're on a cold trail,” said Haines. “Inside that house is just a heart-broken girl and her baby. If you want to see them—go ahead!”
 
“She might know something,” mused the sheriff, “and I s'pose I'd ought to pry it out of her right now: but I don't care for that sort of pickin's.” He repeated softly: “A girl and a baby!” and turned on his heel. “All right, boys, climb your hosses. Two of you take Mat. We'll bury him where we put Harry. I guess we can pack him that far.”
 
“How's that?” This from Haines. “One of your gang dropped?”
 
“He is.”
 
They followed him and stood presently beside the body. Aside from the red mark in the forehead he seemed asleep, and smiling at some pleasant dream; a handsome fellow in the strength of first manhood, this man who was the second to die for Grey Molly.
 
“It's the end of Dan Barry,” said Buck. “Lee, we'll never have Whistlin' Dan for a friend again. He's wild for good.”
 
The sheriff turned and eyed him closely.
 
“He's got to come back,” said Haines. “He's got to come back for the sake of Kate.”
 
“He'd better be dead for the sake of Kate,” answered Buck.
 
“Why, partner, this isn't the first time he's gone wild.”
 
“Don't you see, Lee?”
 
“Well?”
 
“He's fighting to kill. He's shooting to kill, and he ain't ever done that before. He crippled his men; he put 'em out of the way with a busted leg or a plugged shoulder; but now he's out to finish 'em. Lee, he'll never come back.”
 
He looked to the white face of Vic Gregg, standing by, and he said without anger; “Maybe it ain't your fault, but you've started a pile of harm. Look at these gents around you, the sheriff and all—they're no better'n dead, Gregg, and that's all along of you. Barry has started on the trail of all of you. Look at that house back there. It's packed full of hell, and all along of you. Lee, let's get back. I'm feelin' sick inside.”
 
 
Chapter XVIII. Concerning The Strength Of Women
 There were three things discussed by Lee Haines and Buck Daniels in the dreary days which followed. The first was to keep on their way across the mountains and cut themselves away from the sorrow of that cabin. The second was to strike the trail of Barry and hunt until they found his refuge and attempt to lead him back to his family. The third was simply to stay on and where they found the opportunity, help Kate. They discarded the first idea without much talk; it would be yellow, they decided, and the debt they owed to the Dan Barry of the old days was too great to be shouldered off so easily: they cast away the second thought still more quickly, for the trail which baffled the shrewd sheriff, as they knew, would be too much for them. It remained to stay with Kate, making excursions through the mountains from day to day to maintain the pretence of carrying on their own business, and always at hand in time of need.
 
It was no easy part to play, for in the house they found Kate more and more silent, more and more thoughtful, never speaking of her trouble, but behind her eyes a ghost of waiting that haunted them. If the wind shrilled down the pass, if a horse neighed from the corral, there was always the start in her, the thrill of hope, and afterwards the pitiful deadening of her smile. She was not less beautiful they thought, as she grew paler, but the terrible silence of the place drove them away time and again. Even Joan no longer pattered about the house, and when they came down out of the mountains they never heard her shrill laughter. She sat cross-legged by the hearth in her old place during the evenings with her chin resting on one hand and her eyes fixed wistfully upon the fire; and sometimes they found her on the little hillock behind the house, from the top of which she could view every approach to the cabin. Of Dan and even of Black Bart, her playmate she soon learned not to speak, for the mention of them made her mother shrink and whiten. Indeed, the saddest thing in that house was the quiet in which the child waited, waited, waited, and never spoke.
 
“She ain't more'n a baby,” said Buck Daniels, “and you can leave it to time to make her forget.”
 
“But,” growled Lee Haines, “Kate isn't a baby. Buck, it drives me damn near crazy to see her fade this way.”
 
“Now you lay to this,” answered Buck. “She'll pull through. She'll never forget, maybe, but she'll go on livin' for the sake of the kid.”
 
“You know a hell of a lot about women, don't you?” said Haines.
 
“I know enough, son,” nodded Buck.
 
He had, in fact, reduced women to a few distinct categories, and he only waited to place a girl in her particular class before he felt quite intimate acquaintance with her entire mind and soul.
 
“It'll kill her,” pronounced Lee Haines. “Why, she's like a flower, Buck, and sorrow will cut her off at the root. Think of a girl like that thrown away in these damned deserts! It makes me sick—sick! She ought to have nothing but velvet to touch—nothing but a millionaire for a husband, and never a worry in her life.” He grew excited. “But here's the flower thrown away and the heel crushing it without mercy.”
 
Buck Daniels regarded him with pity.
 
“I feel kind of sorry for you, Lee, when I hear you talk about girls. No wonder they make a fool of you. A flower crushed under the foot, eh? You just listen to me, my boy. You and me figure to be pretty hard, don't we? Well, soft pine stacked up agin' quartzite, is what we are compared to Kate.”
 
Lee Haines gaped at him, too astonished to be angry. He suggested softening of the brain to Buck, but the latter waved aside the implications.
 
“Now, supposin' Kate was one of these dark girls with eyes like black diamonds and a lot of snap and zip to her. If she was like that I s'pose you'd figure her to forget all about Dan inside of a month—and maybe marry you?”
 
“You be damned!”
 
“Maybe I am. Them hard, snappy lookin' girls are the ones that smash. They're brittle, that's why; but you take a soft lookin' girl like Kate, maybe she ain't a diamond point to cut glass, but she's tempered steel that'll bend, and bend, and bend, and then when you wait for it to break it flips up and knocks you down. That's Kate.”
 
Lee Haines rolled a cigarette in silence. He was too disgusted to answer, until his first puff of smoke dissolved Buck in a cloud of thin blue.
 
“You ought to sing to a congregation instead of to cows, Buck. You have the tune, and you might get by in a church; but cows have sense.”
 
“Kate will buckle and bend and fade for a while,” went on Buck, wholly unperturbed, “but just when you go out to pick daisies for her you'll come back and find her singing to the stove. Her strength is down deep, like some of these outlaw hosses that got a filmy, sleepy lookin' eye. They save their hell till you sink the spurs in 'em. You think she loves Dan, don't you?”
 
“I have a faint suspicion of it,” sneered Haines. “I suppose I'm wrong?”
 
“You are.”
 
“Buck, I may have slipped a nickel into you, but you're playing the wrong tune. Knock off and talk sense, will you?”
 
“When you grow up, son, you'll understand some of the things I'm tryin' to explain in words of one syllable.
 
“She don't love Dan. She thinks she does, but down deep they ain't a damned thing in the world she gives a rap about exceptin' Joan. Men? What are they to her? Marriage? That's simply an accident that's needed so she can have a baby. Delicate, shrinkin' flower, is she? I tell you, my boy, if it was necessary for Joan she'd tear out your heart and mine and send Dan plumb to hell. You fasten on to them words, because they're gospel.”
 
It was late afternoon while they talked, and they were swinging slowly down a gulch towards the home cabin. At that very time Kate, from the door of the house where she sat, saw a dark form slink from rock to rock at the rim of the little plateau, a motion so swift that it flicked through the corner of her eye, a thing to be sensed rather than seen. She set up very stiff, her lips white as chalk, but nothing more stirred. A few minutes later, when her heart was beating almost at normal she heard Joan scream from behind the house, not in terror, or pain, as her keen mother-ear knew perfectly well, but with a wild delight. She whipped about the corner of the house and there she saw Joan with her pudgy arms around the neck of Black Bart.
 
“Bart! Dear old Bart! Has he come? Has he come?”
 
And she strained her eyes against the familiar mountains around her as if she would force her vision through rock. There was no trace of Dan, no sign or sound when she would even have welcomed the eerie whistle. The wolf-dog was already at play with Joan. She was on his back and he darted off in an effortless gallop, winding to and fro among the rocks. Most children would have toppled among the stones at the first of his swerves, but Joan clung like a burr, both hands dug into his hair, shrieking with excitement. Sometimes she reeled and almost slid at one of those lightning turns, for the game was to almost unseat her, but just as she was sliding off Bart would slacken his pace and let her find a firm seat once more. They wound farther and farther away, and suddenly Kate cried, terror-stricken: “Joan! Come back!”
 
A tug at the ear of the wolf-dog swung them around; then as they approached, the fear left the mind of the mother and a new thought came in its place. She coaxed Joan from Bart—they could play later on, she promised, to their heart's desire—and led her into the house. Black Bart followed to the door, but not all their entreaty or scolding could make him cross the threshold. He merely snarled at Kate, and even Joan's tugging at his ears could not budge him. He stood canting his head and watching them wistfully while Kate changed Joan's clothes.
 
She dressed her as if for a festival, with a blue bonnet that let the yellow hair curl out from the edges, and a little blue cloak, and shiny boots incredibly small, and around the bonnet she laid a wreath of yellow wild flowers. Then she wrote her letter, closed it in an envelope, and fastened it securely in the pocket of the cloak.
 
She drew Joan in front of her and held her by both hands.
 
“Joan, darling,” she said, “munner wants you to go with Bart up through the mountains. Will you be afraid?”
 
A very decided shake of the head answered her, for Joan's eyes were already over her shoulder looking towards the big dog. And she was a little sullen at these unnecessary words.
 
“It might grow dark,” she said. “You wouldn't care?”
 
Here Joan became a little dubious, but a whine from Bart seemed to reassure her.
 
“Bart will keep Joan,” she said.
 
“He will. And he'll take you up through the rocks to Daddy Dan.”
 
The face of the child grew brilliant.
 
“Daddy Dan?” she whispered.
 
“And when you get to him, take this little paper out of your pocket and give it to him. You won't forget?”
 
“Give the paper to Daddy Dan,” repeated Joan solemnly.
 
Kate dropped to her knees and gathered the little close, close, until Joan cried out, but when she was eased the child reached up an astonished hand, touched the face of Kate with awe, and then stared at her finger tips.
 
A moment later, Joan stood in front of Black Bart, with the head of the wolf-dog seized firmly between her hands while she frowned intently into his face.
 
“Take Joan to Daddy Dan,” she ordered.
 
At the name, the sharp ears pricked; a speaking intelligence grew up in his eyes.
 
“Giddap,” commanded Joan, when she was in position on the back of Bart. And she thumped her heels against the furry ribs.
 
Towards Kate, who stood trembling in the door, Bart cast the departing favor of a throat-tearing growl, and then shambled across the meadow with that smooth trot which wears down all other four-footed creatures. He was already on the far side of the meadow, and beginning the ascent of the first slope when the glint of the sun on the yellow wild flowers flashed on the eye of Kate. It had all seemed natural until that moment, the only possible thing to do, but now she felt suddenly that Joan was thrown away thought of the darkness which would soon come—remembered the yellow terror which sometimes gleamed in the eyes of Black Bart after nightfall.
 
She cried out, but the wolf-dog kept swiftly on his way. She began to run, still calling, but rapidly as she went, Black Bart slid steadily away from her, and when she reached the shoulder of the mountain, she saw the dark form of Bart with the blue patch above it drifting up the wall of the opposite ravine.
 
She knew where they were going now; it was the old cave upon which she and Dan had come one day in their rides, and Dan had prowled for a long time through the shadowy recesses.
Chapter XIX. The Venture
 From the moment Joan gave the name of Daddy Dan, the wolf-dog kept to the trail with arrowy straightness. Whatever the limitations of Bart's rather uncanny intelligence, upon one point he was usually letter-perfect, and even when a stranger mentioned Dan in the hearing of the dog it usually brought a whine or at least an anxious look. He hewed to his line now with that animal sense of direction which men can never wholly understand. Boulders and trees slipped away on either side of Joan; now on a descent of the mountain-side he broke into a lope that set the flowers fluttering on her bonnet; now he prowled up the ravine beyond, utterly tireless.
 
He was strictly business. When she slipped a little from her place as he veered around a rock he did not slow up, as usual, that she might regain her seat, but switched his head back with a growl that warned her into position. That surprise was hardly out of her mind when she saw a gay patch of wild-flowers a little from the line of his direction, and she tugged at his ear to swing him towards it. A sharp jerk of his head tossed her hand aside, and again she caught the glint of wild eyes as he looked back at her. Then she grew grave, puzzled. She trusted Black Bart with all her heart, as only a child can trust dumb animals, but now she sensed a change in him. She had guessed at a difference on that night when Dan came home for the last time; and the same thing seemed to be in the dog today.
 
Before she could make up her mind as to what it might be, Black Bart swung aside up a steep slope, and whisked her into the gloom of a cave. Into the very heart of the darkness he glided and stopped.
 
“Daddy Dan!” she called.
 
A faint echo, after a moment, came back to her from the depths of the cave, making her voice strangely deep. Otherwise, there was no answer.
 
“Bart!” she whispered, suddenly frightened by the last murmur of that echo, “Daddy Dan's not here. Go back!”
 
She tugged at his ear to turn him, but again that jerk of the head freed his ear. He caught her by the cloak, crouched close to the floor, and she found herself all at once sitting on the gravelly floor of the cave with Bart facing her.
 
“Bad Bart!” she said, scrambling to her feet.
 
“Naughty dog!”
 
She was still afraid to raise her voice in that awful silence, and in the dark. When she glanced around her, she made out vague forms through the dimness that might be the uneven walls of the cave, or might be strange and awful forms of night.
 
“Take me home!”
 
A growl that went shuddering down the cave stopped her, and now she saw that the eyes of Bart glowed green and yellow. Even then she could not believe that he would harm her, and stretched out a tentative hand. This time she made out the flash of his teeth as he snarled. He was no longer the Bart she had played with around the cabin, but a strange wild thing, and with a scream she darted past him toward the door. Never had those chubby legs flown so fast, but even as the light from the mouth of the cave glimmered around her, she heard a crunching on the gravel from behind, and then a hand, it seemed, caught her cloak and jerked her to a stop.
 
She fell sprawling, head over heels, and when she looked up, there sat Bart upon his haunches above her, growling terribly, and gripping the end of the cloak. No doubt about it now. Black Bart would have his teeth in her throat if she made another movement toward the entrance. A city child would have either gone mad with terror or else made that fatal struggle to reach the forbidden place, but Joan had learned many things among the mountains, and among others, she knew the difference between the tame and the free. The old dappled cow was tame, for instance; and the Maltese cat, which came too close to Bart the year before and received a broken back for its carelessness, had been tame; and the brown horse with the white face and the dreary eyes was tame. They could be handled, and teased, and petted and bossed about at will. Other creatures were different. For instance, the scream of the hawk always made her shrink a little closer to the ground, or else run helter-skelter for the house, and sometimes, up the gulches, she had heard the wailing of a mountain lion on the trail, hunting swiftly, and very hungry. There was even something about the dead eyes of certain lynxes and coyotes and bobcats which Daddy Dan trapped that made Joan feel these animals belonged to a world where the authority of man was only the strength of his hand or his cunning. Not that she phrased these thoughts in definite words, but Joan was very close to nature, and therefore her instincts gave her a weird little touch of wisdom in such matters.
 
And when she lay there tangled in her cloak and looked up into the glowing eyes of Bart and heard his snarling roll around her, and pass in creepy chills up her back, she nearly died of fear, to be sure, but she lay as still as still, frozen into a part of the rock. Black Bart was gone, and in his place was a terrible creature which belonged there among the shadows, for it could see in the night.
 
Presently the bright eyes disappeared, and now she saw that Bart lay stretched across the entrance to the cave, where the long shadow was now creeping down the slope. Inches by inches she ventured to sit up, and all it brought from Bart was a quick turn of the head and a warning growl. It meant as plainly as though he had spoken in so many words: “Stay where you are and I don't care in the least what you do, but don't try to cross this entrance if you fear the length of my teeth and the keenness thereof.” And she did fear them, very much, for she remembered the gashes across the back and the terrible rips up the side, of the dead Maltese cat.
 
She even took a little heart, after a time. A grownup cannot feel terror or grief as keenly as a child, but neither does terror or grief pass away a tithe as fast. She seemed at liberty to roam about in the cave as long as she did not go near the entrance, and now the shadows and the dimness no longer frightened her. Nothing was terrible except that long, dark body which lay across the entrance to the cave, and she finally got to her feet and began to explore. She came first on a quantity of dead grass heaped in a corner that was where Satan was stalled, no doubt, and it made all the cave seem almost homelike. She found, too, a number of stones grouped together with ashes in the hollow circle-that was where the fires were built, and there to the side lay the pile of dead wood. A little down the cave and directly in the center of the top, she next saw the natural aperture where the smoke must escape and last of all she came on the bed. Boughs heaped a foot thick with the blankets on top, neatly stretched out, and the tarpaulin over all, made a couch as soft as down and fragrant with the pure scent of evergreens.
 
Joan tried the surface with a foot that sank to her ankle, then with her hands, and finally sat down to think. The first fear was almost gone; she understood that Bart was keeping her here until Dan came home, and fear does not go hand in hand with understanding. She only wondered, now, at the reason that kept Daddy Dan living in this cave so far from the warm comfort of the cabin, and so far away from her mother; but thinking makes small heads drowsy, and in five minutes Joan lay with her head pillowed on her arm, sound asleep.
 
When she awoke, the evening-gray of the cave had given place to utter blackness, alarming and thick. Joan sat up with a start; she would have cried out, bewildered, but now she heard a noise on the gravel, and turned to see Daddy Dan entering the cave with Satan behind him, quite distinctly outlined by the sunset outside. Black Bart walked first, looking back over his shoulder as though he led the way.
 
It was partly because the black, silhouetted figures awed her, somewhat, and partly because she wished to give Daddy Dan a gay surprise, that Joan did not run to him. And then, in the darkness, she heard Satan munching the dried grass, and the squeak and rattle as the saddle was drawn off and hung up, scraping against the rock.
 
“What you been doin', Bart?” queried the voice of Daddy Dan, and the last of Joan's fears fell from her as she listened. “You act kind of worried. If you been runnin' rabbits all day and got your pads full of thorns I'll everlastin'ly treat you rough.”
 
The wolf-dog whined.
 
“Well, speak up. What you want? Want me over there?”
 
It would have been a trifle unearthly to most people, but Joan knew the ways of Daddy Dan with Satan and Black Bart. She lay quite still, shivering with pleasure as the footsteps approached her. Then a match scratched—she saw by the blue spurt of flame that he was lighting a pine torch, then whirling it until the flame ate down to the pitchy knot. He held it above his head, and now she saw him plainly: the light cascaded over his shoulders, glowed on his eyes, and then puffed out sidewise in a draught.
 
Joan was upon her feet, and running toward him with a cry of joy, until she remembered that he was not to be approached like her mother. There were never any bear-hugs from him, no caresses, not much laughter. She stopped barely in time, and stood with her fingers interlaced, staring up at him, half delighted, half afraid. She read his mind by microscopic changes in his eyes and lips.
 
“Munner sent me.”
 
That was wrong, she saw at once.
 
“And Bart brought me.” Much better, now. “And oh, Daddy Dan, I've been lonesome for you!”
 
He continued to stare at her for another moment, and even Joan could not tell whether he were angry or indifferent or pleased.
 
“Well,” he murmured at length, “I guess you're hungry, Joan?”
 
She knew it was complete acceptance, and she could hardly keep from a shout of happiness. Daddy Dan had a great aversion to sudden outcries.
 
“I guess I am,” said Joan.
 
 
Chapter XX. Discipline
 He made the preparation for supper with such easy speed that everything seemed to be done by magic hands. When Joan's mother cooked supper there was always much rattling of the stove, then the building of the fire, a long preparation of food, and another interval when things steamed and sizzled on the fire. There followed the setting of the table, and then a long, aching time of hunger when the food was in sight, but one could not eat until Daddy Dan had done this, and Munner had done that. Also, when one did eat, half the taste was taken from things by the necessity of various complicated evolutions of knife and fork. Instance the absurdity of taking the fork under the thumb with the forefinger pressing along the back of the wobbly instrument, when any one could see that the proper, natural way of using a fork was to grasp it daggerwise and drive it firmly through that skidding piece of meat. Not only this, but a cup must be held in one hand, and bread must be broken into little pieces before putting butter on it. Above all, no matter how terribly hard one tried, there was sure to be a mistake, and then: “Now, Joan, don't do that. This is the way—”
 
But how different everything was in this delightful house of Daddy Dan!
 
In an incredibly short time three torches flared about them and filled the air with scents of freshness and the outdoors-scents that went tingling up the nose and filled one with immense possibilities of eating. At the very same time, a few motions caused a heap of wood to catch fire and blaze among the stones while a steady stream of blue-white smoke wavered up toward the top of the cave and disappeared in the shadows. After this her father showed her a little stream of water which must come from a spring far back in the cave, and the current slipped noiselessly along one wall, and dipped of sight again before it reached the entrance to the place. Here she discovered a little bowl, made out of small stones nicely fitted together, and allowing the water to pour over one edge and out at another with a delicious purling—such crystal clear water that one actually wanted to wash in it even if it was cold, and even if one had the many sore places on fingers and nose and behind the ears.
 
Behold! no sooner did one turn from the washing of hands and face than the table was miraculously spread upon the surface of a flat rock, with other stones nearby to serve as chairs; and on the table steamed “pone,” warmed over; coffee with milk in it—coffee, which was so strictly banned at home!—potatoes sliced to transparent thinness and fried to crisp brown at the edges, and a great slab of meat that fairly shouted to the appetite.
 
So far so good, but the realization was a thousand fold better than anticipation. No cutting of one's own meat at this enchanted board! The shining knife of Daddy Dan divided it into delectable bits with the speed of light, and it needed only the slightest amount of experimenting and cautious glances to discover that one could use a fork daggerwise, and when in doubt even seize upon a morsel with one's fingers and wipe the fingers afterwards on a bit of the dry grass. One could grasp the cup by both sides, scorning the silly handle, and if occasionally one sipped the coffee with a little noise—which added astonishingly to the taste—there was no sharp warning, no frowning eye to overlook. Besides, at Munner's table, there was never time to pay attention to Joan, for there was talk about vague, abstract things—the price of skins, the melting of the snows, the condition of the passes, the long and troubling argument about the wicker chairs, with some remarkably foolish asides, now and then, concerning happiness and love—when all the time any one with half an eye could see that the thing to do was to eat and eat and eat until that hollow place ceased to be. Talking came afterwards.
 
In the house of Daddy Dan all these things were ordered as they should be. Not a word was said; not a glance of criticism rested upon her; when her tin plate was cleared she heard no reproofs for eating too greedily, but she was furnished anew from the store of good things on the rock.
 
In place of conversation, there were other matters to occupy the mind during the meal. For presently she observed the beautiful head of Satan just behind his master—Satan, who could pass over noisy gravel with the softness of a cat, and now loomed out of the deeper night down the cavern. Inch by inch, with infinite caution and keenly pricked ears, the head lowered beside Dan, and the quivering, delicate muzzle stole towards a fragment of the “pone.” Joan watched breathlessly and then she saw that in spite of the caution of that movement her father knew all about it—just a glint of amusement in the corner of his eyes, just a slight twitch at the corners of his mouth to tell Joan that he was as delighted as a boy playing a trick. Barely in time to save the morsel of pone, he spoke and the head was dashed up. Yet Satan was not entirely discouraged. If he could not steal the bread he would beg for it. It made Joan pause in her destruction of the edibles, not to watch openly, for an instinct told her that the thing to do was to note these by-plays from the corner of one's eye, as Daddy Dan did, and swallow the ripples of mirth that came tickling in the throat. She knew perfectly well that Satan would have it in the end, for of all living things not even Munner had such power over Dan as the black stallion. He maneuvered adroitly. First he circled the table and stood opposite the master, begging with his eyes, but Dan looked fixedly down at the rock until an impatient whinny called up his eyes. Then he pretended the most absolute surprise.
 
“Why, Satan, you old scoundrel, what are you doin' over there? Get back where you belong?”
 
He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder and Satan glided around the rock and stood once more behind Dan.
 
“Manners?” continued Dan. “You ain't got 'em. You'll be tryin' to sit down at the table with me, pretty soon.” He concluded: “But I'll teach you one of these days, and you'll smart for a week.”
 
Even at the mock menace Joan trembled a little, but to her astonishment Satan paid not the slightest heed. Dan sat with his hat on his head—which was a new and delightful event at the table—and now the stallion took the hat by the crown, dexterously, and raised it just an inch and put it back in place. Black Bart, having crept out of the shadows sat down near Joan with his long red tongue lolling out. This procedure called a growl from him, but the master continued eating without the slightest interest, apparently, in Satan's insolence.
 
A velvety muzzle appeared, with the chin resting on the shoulder of Dan and the great, luminous eyes above. He whinnied so softly that it was not more than a human whisper, and meant almost as much.
 
“Oh,” said Dan, in all seeming just roused to attention, “hungry, old boy?”
 
He raised the morsel of “pone” between thumb and forefinger, holding it tightly. Then it was a joy to watch Satan. He tried to tug it all away at once, but only a fragment broke off. He stamped in impatience, and then went to work to nibble the bread away on all sides of Dan's fingers, very fine work for such broad, keen chisels as Satan's teeth, but he went about it with the skill of long practice, turning his head this way and that and always watching the face of the master with sidewise eyes, one ear forward and one ear back. Finally the tight fingers opened out, and Satan gathered the last crumbs from the smooth palm.
 
Two or three times during this performance Black Bart had half risen from his haunches and a growl swelled almost inaudibly in his throat, but now he stalked around the table and pushed his narrow head between Dan's shoulder and the stallion. A snarl of incredible ferocity made Satan turn, but without the slightest dread, apparently. For an instant the two stood nose to nose, Black Bart a picture of snarling danger and Satan with curiously pricking ears and bright eyes. The growling rose towards a crescendo, a terrible sound; then a lean hand shot out with that speed which Joan could never comprehend—and which always made her think, rather breathlessly, of the strike of a snake. The fingers settled around the muzzle of Bart.
 
“Of all the no-good houn'-dogs,” declared Dan, “you're the worst, and the most jealousest. Lie down!”
 
Bart obeyed, slowly, but his evil eyes were fixed upwards upon the head of Satan.
 
“If you got any manners,” remarked Dan, “you'll be sayin' that you're sorry.”
 
The ears flattened along the snaky head; otherwise no answer.
 
“Sorry!” repeated the master.
 
Out of the deep throat of Black Bart, infinitely, ludicrously small, came a whine which was more doglike than anything Joan had ever heard, before, from the wolf.
 
“Now,” continued the implacable master, “you go over in that corner, and lie down.”
 
Black Bart arose with a finally ugly look for Satan and sneaked with hanging head and tail to the outer edge of the circle of light.
 
“Farther! Clear over there in the dark,” came the order, and Bart had to uncoil himself again in the very act of lying down and retreat with another ominous growl clear into the darkness. Satan held his head high and watched triumphantly.
 
But Joan felt that this was a little hard on Bart; she wanted to run over and comfort him, but she knew from of old that it was dangerous to interfere where Daddy Dan was disciplining either horse or wolf; besides, she was not quite free from her new awe for Bart.
 
“All right,” said the master presently, and without raising his voice.
 
It brought a dark thunder bolt rushing into the circle of the light and stopping at Dan's side with such suddenness that his paws slid in the gravel. There he stood, actually wagging his bushy tail—an unprecedented outburst of joy for Bart!—and staring hungrily into the face of Dan. She saw a wonderful softening in the eyes of her father as he looked at the great, dangerous beast.
 
“You ain't a bad sort,” he said, “but you need puttin' in place continual.”
 
Black Bart whined agreement.
 
After that, when the dishes were being cleared away and cleaned with a speed fully as marvelous as the preparation of the supper, Joan remembered with a guilty start the message which she should have given to Daddy Dan, and she brought out the paper, much rumpled.
 
He stood by the fire to read the letter.
 
“Dan come back to us. The house is empty and there's no sign of you except your clothes and the skins you left drying in the vacant room. Joan sits all day, mourning for you, and my heart is breaking. Oh, Dan, I don't grieve so much for what has been done, but I tremble for what you may do in the future.”
 
With the letter still in his hand Dan walked thoughtfully to Satan and took the fine head between his fingers.
 
“S'pose some gent was to drop you, Satan,” he murmured. “S'pose he was to plug you while you was doin' your best to take me where I want to go. S'pose he shot you not for anything you'd done but because of something agin me. And s'pose after killin' you he was to sneak up on me with a lot of other gents and try to murder me before I had a chance to fight back. Satan, wouldn't I be right to trail 'em all—and kill 'em one by one? Wouldn't it?”
 
Joan heard very little of the words—only a soft murmur of anxiety, and she saw that Daddy Dan was very thoughtful indeed. The stallion reached for the brim of Dan's hat—it was withdrawn from his reach—his head bowed, like a nod of assent.
 
“Why, even Satan can see I'm right,” murmured Dan, and moving back to the fire, he tore the letter into many pieces which fluttered down in a white stream and made the blaze leap up.