Burton of the Flying Corps

The Death’s Head Hussar

I

“My compliments, Burton! You brought her down magnificently,” said Captain Rolfe. “Not much damage done, I hope?”

The airman stooping over the engine grunted. In a moment or two a grimy face was upturned, the tall figure straightened itself, and a crisp voice said ruefully—

“Magneto smashed to smithereens!”

He passed round to the side of the machine, and retailed at short intervals the items of a catalogue of damage.

“A stay cut!... Two holes in the upper plane!... Four in the lower!... Chips and dents galore! Still, we can fall back on the old wife’s consolation: it might have been worse.”

“All the same, it’s precious awkward,” said Captain Rolfe, putting his finger through a hole in the lower plane. “The Bosches will be here in ten minutes.”

“Not under twenty. They’ve some difficult country to cross. But, of course, there’s no time to lose. It’s lucky there’s a village close by.”

Edward Burton, airman, with Captain Rolfe, who accompanied him as observer, had just made an enforced volplané and landed safely after running the gauntlet of German rifles and machine guns. At the moment when he was flattering himself on being out of range, a shell burst close beside the machine, bespattering it with bullets and putting the engine out of action.

Rolfe had seen cavalry galloping in their direction. The sudden descent would apprise the enemy of what had happened. Whether in ten minutes or in twenty, there was no doubt that the arrival of the Germans would place the airmen in a tight corner.

The first thought of the trooper is for his horse. The airman is concerned for the state of his aeroplane. It was not till long afterwards that Rolfe and Burton discovered that they, too, had not come off unscathed. Luckily it was only Rolfe’s sword-hilt that had been shattered, not his groin; while Burton examined with a wondering curiosity two neat black holes in the loose sleeve of his overalls.

It did not occur to either of them that there was at least plenty of time to slip away and hide before the Germans came up. Their instinct was to save the aeroplane—a hopeless proposition, one would have thought.

Along the road from the village, a quarter of a mile away, half the population was already speeding to the scene. The half, alas! was now the whole. There were women old and young, boys and girls, old men and men long past their prime; but there was no male person from seventeen to fifty except the village idiot, who flung his arms about as he ran, making inarticulate noises.

“Hang it all!” Burton ejaculated. “A crowd like this will dish any chance we might have had.”

The crowd suddenly parted; the men doffed their hats, the women bobbed, as they made way for a horseman. It was an old straight figure, with short snow-white hair and a long grizzled moustache. He cantered through the throng, turned into the field on which the aeroplane lay, and reined up before the Englishmen.

“You have had an accident, messieurs?” he said, raising his hat.

“Worse than that, monsieur,” replied Rolfe, in fluent French. “The Germans have hit us; the machine is useless; they are on our track.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Frenchman. Then, turning to the crowd who had flocked up behind him and stood gaping around, he spoke in quick, staccato phrases, in a tone of command. “Back to your houses, my good women. Take the children. These gentlemen are of our brave ally. You men, drag the aeroplane to the inn. Bid Froment lift the trap-door of his cellar ready to let the machine down. Some of you smooth away the tracks behind it. Quick! You, Guignet, post yourself on the mound yonder and watch for the Germans. The inn cellar is large, messieurs; there will be plenty of room. As to yourselves——”

The wrinkles of his aged face deepened.

“Ah, I have it!” he exclaimed. Turning to Rolfe, he went on: “You are an English officer, monsieur; that says itself. You have observations to report. Take my horse; it is not mine, but borrowed from one of my tenants; my own are with the army. There is no other in the village. It will serve you.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” said Rolfe, as the old man dismounted. “In the interests of our forces——”

“Hasten, monsieur,” the old man interrupted. “Guignet waves his arms. He has seen the Germans. As for you, monsieur——”

“I will go to the inn,” said Burton.

“My château is at your service, monsieur, but I fear it will prove an unsafe refuge. A haystack, or a barn——”

“I must stay by the aeroplane, monsieur; get it repaired if possible.”

The old man shrugged. Guignet came up.

“The Bosches have taken the wrong road, monsieur le marquis,” he said. “They are riding, ma foi! how quickly, towards old Lumineau’s farm.”

“That gives you more time,” said the old gentleman to Burton. “Pray use it to save yourself. They will not be long discovering their mistake. Adieu! I salute in you your brave nation.”

Bowing, he hurried away across the fields towards a large château that reared itself among noble trees half a mile distant. Burton followed the crowd towards the village inn.

“A fine old fellow!” he thought, “but he doesn’t know the Germans if he supposes that the wine-cellar will be a safe place. I must find somewhere better than that.”

He overtook the men before they reached the village. Passing the ancient church, an idea occurred to him.

“Is there a crypt?” he asked.

“Parfaitement, monsieur,” a man replied.

“Halt a minute.”

He hastened to the priest’s house adjoining, at the door of which stood the curé in his biretta and long soutane. A minute’s conversation settled the matter.

“It is a good cause, monsieur,” said the curé. “Direct our friends.”

Superintended by Burton, the men wheeled the machine through the great door into the church. While Burton rapidly unscrewed the planes, willing hands opened up the floor, and in a quarter of an hour the aeroplane was lowered into the crypt.

“Is there an engineer in the village?” Burton asked.

“Mais non, monsieur, but there is Boitelet, the smith—a clever fellow, monsieur. You should have seen him set monsieur le capitaine’s automobile to rights. Boitelet is your man.”

Burton hurried to the smithy. Boitelet, a shaggy giant of fifty years or so, accompanied him back to the church.

“Ah ça!” he exclaimed on examining the engine. “I can repair it, yes; but I must go for material to the town, ten miles away. It will be a full day’s work, and what is monsieur to do, with the Bosches at hand?”

Burton thought quickly.

“Make me your assistant,” he said after a minute or two. “I’ll strip off my overalls and clothes; lend me things—a shirt and apron. A little more grease and dirt will disguise me.”

“But monsieur is young,” said the smith. “All our young men are at the war. The Bosches will make you prisoner—shoot you, perhaps.”

“An awkward situation, truly,” said Burton, rubbing a greasy hand over his face. Suddenly he remembered the half-witted stripling among the crowd. Could he feign idiocy as an explanation of his presence in the village? He could mop and mow, but nothing could banish the gleam of intelligence from his eyes. And his tongue!—he spoke French fairly well, but his accent would inevitably betray him to any German who chanced to be a linguist.

“There is only one thing,” he cried. “I must pretend to be deaf and dumb. Tell everybody, will you?”

“It is clever, monsieur, that idea of yours,” said the smith, laughing. “Yes; you are Jules le sourd-muet, burning to fight, but rejected because you could never hear the word of command. But you must be careful, monsieur; a single slip, and—voilà!”

He shrugged his shoulder expressively.

“The Bosches! The Bosches!” screamed a group of frightened children, rushing up the street.

The people fled into their houses and shut the doors. Only the curé and the smith were visible, the latter standing at his door leaning on his hammer, with an angry frown upon his swarthy face. Within the smithy Burton was making a rapid change of dress. He rolled up his own clothes and equipment and threw them into a corner behind a heap of old iron, and donned the dirty outer garments hurriedly provided by the smith. After a moment’s hesitation he ferreted out his revolver case from the bundle, and slipped the revolver inside his blouse.

“If they search me, I’m done for,” he thought. “But they would shoot the smith if they found the thing here, so it’s as broad as it is long. The case must go up the chimney.”

Then, completely transformed, he came to the door in time to see a troop of the Death’s Head Hussars gallop up the street.

They reined up at the door of the smithy.

“Now, you dog, answer me,” said the major in command. “And tell the truth, or I’ll cut your tongue out. Have you seen an aeroplane hereabout?”

“Oui da, mon colonel,” replied the smith, with an ironical courtesy that delighted Burton. “I did see an aeroplane, it might be an hour ago. It came down close to those poplars yonder, but rose in a minute or two and sailed away to the west.”

“Go and see if he is telling the truth,” said the officer to two of his men. “And you, smith, look to my horse’s shoes. Who is this young fellow? A deserter? a coward?”

“Oh, he’s brave enough, mon colonel,” the smith answered. “But the poor wretch is deaf and dumb, a sore trouble to himself and his friends. You may shout, and he will not hear you; and as to asking for his dinner, he can’t do it. I only employ him out of compassion.”

The officer glanced at Burton, who was trying to assume that pathetically eager expression, that busy inquiry of the eyes, which characterises deaf mutes.

“If he were a German we’d make him shoot, deaf or not,” said the major. “You French are too weak. Well?”

The troopers had returned, and sat their horses rigidly at the salute.

“Without doubt an aeroplane descended there, Herr Major,” one of them reported, “and it flew up again, for there are no more tracks.”

“It is not worth while continuing the chase. Night is coming on. Quarter yourselves in the village—and keep the people quiet. No one is to leave his house.”

The troopers saluted and rode off, leaving a captain, two lieutenants, and four orderlies with the major.

“Look alive, smith,” cried that officer, in the domineering tone evidently habitual with him. “Are the shoes in good order?”

The smith turned up the hoofs one after another, and pronounced them perfectly shod.

“Very well; if any of the troopers’ horses need shoeing, see that it is done promptly, or it will be the worse for you. Now for the château, gentlemen; monsieur le marquis will be delighted to entertain us.”

There was a look upon his face that Burton could not fathom—an ugly smile that made him shiver. The horsemen rode away, and Boitelet, the smith, spat upon the ground.

II

“Come inside, monsieur,” murmured the smith, glancing round to see that no German was within hearing. Then he threw up his hands and groaned.

“He is an insolent hound,” said Burton, sympathetically.

“Ah, monsieur, it is not that; all these Prussians are brutes. I fear for monsieur le marquis.”

“Who is the marquis? He has a soldierly look.”

“He was a fine soldier, monsieur. Every Frenchman knows his name. In the army he was plain General du Breuil; here in his own country, where we love him, we give him his true title, that has come to him from the days of long ago. Ah! there is great trouble for him. I know that man.”

“The major?”

“Major he may be; spy he was. It is clear. Listen, monsieur. Some three years ago, before monsieur le marquis retired from the army, he had in his service a secretary, said to be an Alsatian, very useful to monsieur, who was compiling his memoirs. One day he was dismissed, none of us knew why. Monsieur le marquis had discovered something, no doubt. There was a violent scene at the château. Monsieur’s son, Captain du Breuil, kicked the secretary down the steps. He came into the village, hired a calèche to drive him to the station, and departed. We have seen no more of him until this day. He is the major.”

“You are sure?”

“It is certain, monsieur. He was then clean shaven, and now wears a moustache, but I know the scar on his cheek.”

“And you fear he will insult the marquis?”

“Worse than that, monsieur. A few days ago monsieur le capitaine, brave soldier like his father, was wounded in action only a mile or two away, when our gallant cuirassiers charged the Bosches and drove them helter-skelter from their trenches. He was found on the field by old Guignet, and carried secretly to the château, and there he lies, horribly hurt by shrapnel.”

“And now they will make him prisoner?”

“That would be bad enough, but I fear worse. The Bosches are brutal to all. What must we expect from a man who has a grudge to pay off, and finds his enemy helpless in his clutches? The major will not forgive his kicking.”

“It’s a bad look-out, certainly,” said Burton. “I like your old general; he came to our help so quickly. But what about my engine?”

“Ah, oui, monsieur, it is a pity. I dare not leave the village now. The Bosches passed quickly through here in their retreat a few days ago; I did not expect to see their ugly faces again. You must wait, monsieur. Come into my house, and share our soup. If God pleases, the hounds will go again to-morrow.”

Burton accepted the good man’s offer of hospitality, and shared a simple meal with him, and his wife, and two wide-eyed children who gazed with interest at the stranger.

When the meal was nearly finished, the smith suddenly exclaimed—

“Ah! here comes old Pierre, with a German. Have a care, monsieur. Remember you are deaf and dumb.”

Looking out of the window into the darkling street, Burton saw a bent old man tottering along by the side of one of the orderlies who had recently ridden away.

“They are not coming here, Dieu merci!” said the smith at his elbow. “They are going to the butcher’s. These Germans eat like hogs.”

“Who is the old man?” Burton asked.

“Servant of monsieur le marquis, monsieur. They have grown old together. There is no other left in the château. Some are at the war; the rest fled, maids and men, when the Germans came before. Ah! it is sad for monsieur and madame in their old age, and their son lying wounded, too.”

The old serving-man passed from the butcher’s to the baker’s, and thence to other shops, with the orderly always at his side. Soon the old man was staggering under a load of purchases. He faltered and stopped, and the orderly shouted at him, and threatened him with his sword. Burton’s blood boiled. He would have liked to catch the German by the neck and shake him until he howled for mercy.

Then an idea struck him. If he offered to help the laden old man he would make some return for the general’s kindness; perhaps he might be of some further service in the château. He made the suggestion to the smith.

“It is madness, monsieur. You would put your head into the lion’s mouth.”

“What more natural than that a deaf mute should earn a sou by using his muscles? Arrange it, my friend.”

“They say you English are mad, monsieur,” said the smith with a shrug. “A la bonne heure! But you will get more kicks than sous.”

“Make an opportunity to tell the old man that I am deaf and dumb, and that he is to pretend he knows me. He must inform his master and mistress also. Will he be discreet?”

“He will be anything you please for the sake of monsieur le marquis. Come, then, monsieur.”

They left the house, and came upon the scene just as the orderly had terrorised the old man into making another attempt to carry his burden. The smith soon discovered that the orderly knew no French. He arranged the matter by signs, pointing to Burton’s mouth and ears, and indicating that he was muscularly strong. At the same time he spoke rapidly in French to old Pierre.

“Ah, bon, bon!” said the old man. “I understand perfectly. Be sure I will tell the master. Monsieur may rely upon me.”

Burton shouldered more than half the load, and set off for the château side by side with Pierre, the orderly following.

III

The Château du Breuil had been luckier than many similar country houses that stood in the line of the German advance. Whether by accident or a rare considerateness, it had not been shelled, and the officer who had last quartered himself there, though a German, was also a gentleman. It stood, a noble building, in its little park, whole and intact as the first marquis built it in the reign of Henri Quatre.

At either end was a projecting wing of two stories, the wings being connected by the long one-storied building that contained the living-rooms. Burton found the part of deaf mute irksome; he wished to question old Pierre as to the quarters in which the Germans had disposed themselves. But he perforce kept silence, listening to a fragmentary dialogue in German between the orderly and Pierre, who, as he afterwards learnt, had been valet to the marquis when the latter, as a young man, was military attaché to the French embassy at Berlin.

They arrived at the kitchen entrance. Pierre went in first, and at once addressed an old white-haired lady who was stuffing a chicken at the kitchen table. He spoke so rapidly and in so low a tone that Burton could not follow his words, but he gathered their purport when the old lady glanced at him, and signed to him to lay down his load on the table.

“Madame la marquise has understood,” he thought.

The orderly waited awhile; then, seeing that the lady had set Pierre and the deaf mute to pare potatoes and turnips, he went off to report that preparations for dinner were at last in train.

“A thousand thanks, monsieur,” whispered the marquise when the German’s back was turned. “It was good of you to help old Pierre. But, believe me, it is unwise of you to stay. If you should be discovered—— If you made a slip——”

“Madame, to run risks is my daily work,” said Burton. “I am glad to serve you—even in the capacity of kitchen-maid.”

The marquise smiled wearily.

“We are playing strange parts, God help us!” she said. “I am in great distress, monsieur. The German officer——”

“Boitelet has told me about him, madame,” said Burton. “Pardon: I interrupt; but we may have little time. Will you tell me what has happened?”

“My poor son! They dismissed our good doctor who was attending him; they carried him, ill as he is, from his own room to one of the servants’ rooms, and there they have locked him in with my husband. It is on the floor above us. They have taken our rooms in the other wing for themselves. They have ransacked the wine-cellar, and loaded the table in the dining-room with my poor husband’s finest vintage. But it is not what they have done but what they may do that fills me with dread. That horrible man——”

Old Pierre, who was standing near the door, at this moment put his finger quickly to his lips. When the orderly entered, the marquise was turning the chicken on the spit, and Burton was cleaning the knives.

“The old frau is slow,” said the German to Pierre. “The officers are growing impatient. She had better hurry, or there will be trouble.”

“Madame la marquise will serve the dinner when it is ready,” said Pierre, quietly.

“Teufel! You are insolent,” cried the orderly, striking the old man across the face.

Burton smothered the exclamation that rose to his lips. The marquise flashed at the German such a look of indignant scorn that he was abashed, and went out muttering sullenly.

“The visit of that horrible man,” the old lady went on, ignoring the underling’s brutality, “is not accidental, I am sure. He contemplates vengeance. He was dismissed with contumely, and I fear he will make my poor son pay.”

Burton could only murmur his sympathy. He watched with admiration the quick, deft actions of the marquise, who prepared the dinner as skilfully as her own cook could have done.

There was no opportunity for further conversation. The orderly returned, and lolled in a chair, commenting on the old lady’s movements in offensive tones that made Burton tingle. When the dishes were ready, the marquise told Pierre to carry them in.

“No, no, old witch,” said the orderly, with a chuckle. “The Herr Major is very particular; she must serve him herself.”

Pierre translated this to his mistress, protesting that she must not submit to such indignity.

“Eh bien, mon ami,” she said, “they cannot hurt me more. For my son’s sake I will be cook and bonne in one. Carry the dishes; I will show them how a marquise waits at table.”

Burton assisted the old man to convey the dishes to the dining-room, following the marquise. At their entrance there was a shout of laughter. Four officers sat at the table—the major, his captain, and two moon-faced lieutenants.

“Where are your cap and apron, wench?” cried the major. “Go and put them on at once. And make that dumb dog there understand that he is not to bring his dirty face inside; he can hand the things to you through the hatch.”

The marquise compressed her lips, and, without replying, returned to the kitchen, and came back in a maid’s cap and apron. What was meant for indignity and insult seemed to Burton, watching from the hatch, to enhance the lady’s dignity. She moved about the table with the quickness of a waiting maid and the proud bearing of a queen, paying no heed to the coarse pleasantries of the Germans, or to their complaints of the food, of which, nevertheless, they devoured large quantities.

“A tough fowl, this,” said the major, “as old as the old hen herself.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed his juniors, in whom the champagne they had already drunk induced a facile admiration of the major’s wit.

As the meal progressed, and the Germans’ potations deepened, their manners went from bad to worse. They commenced an orgy of plate-smashing, flinging pellets of damp bread at one another and at pictures on the walls. Burton’s fingers tingled; from his place at the hatch he could have shot them one by one with the revolver that lay snug in his blouse. But he contained his anger. The four orderlies were in an adjacent room; the village was filled with the troopers; and hasty action would probably involve the destruction of the château and the massacre of its long-suffering inhabitants.

Presently they called for coffee, and the major went to the marquis’s cigar cupboard, promising his subordinates the best smoke of their lives. The champagne seemed to have affected him less than the other members of the party, and Burton gained the impression that he was holding himself in for the accomplishment of some sinister purpose.

Dismissing the marquise with a curt and contemptuous “Gehen Sie aus,” he called in an orderly to lock her in the upper room with her husband and son.

“Now get your own suppers and turn in,” he said. “You may be disturbed; the sneaking Englishmen are somewhere in the neighbourhood; so keep a man on guard to give warning, and post a sentry in the corridor. Send Vossling to me.”

His own orderly entered. The major opened a fresh bottle, and passed it round the table; then with a “Verzeihen Sie mir” to his companions, he rose, and took the man into the passage out of earshot. Burton had slipped back into the kitchen; the passage appeared to be vacant.

A few minutes later old Pierre, his face blanched to the colour of chalk, staggered into the kitchen.

“What is the matter?” asked Burton, alarmed.

He poured out a little brandy, and held the glass to the old man’s pale and quivering lips. Pierre gulped the liquid, looked around with horror in his eyes, and signed to Burton to throw the door wide open.

“They must not know, monsieur,” he said in a whisper, tottering to a chair.

“What is the matter?” Burton repeated.

“I was in the passage, I heard them coming. They are not there, monsieur?”

“No, there is no one,” said Burton, looking out through the open door.

“I slipped into the dark ante-room, monsieur, and hid behind the tall clock. They came in.”

“Who?”

“The major—Schwikkard, the accursed spy, and his man. I heard what they said. ‘The old marquis is a bitter enemy of Germany,’ said Schwikkard. ‘He fought against us in ’70. He is a dangerous man. Now, if the west wing of the château caught fire—caught fire, you understand—say, in the early morning.’... They are not there, monsieur?”

“No. Go on.”

“‘Caught fire!’ he said. Mon Dieu! ‘In the early morning—not too early, for that would disturb the sleep of some good Germans; but not too late, for that would bring the whole village here. If the west wing were burned, and all in it’—all in it, monsieur!—’it would be a good thing for Germany. Understand,’ he said, ’it will be an accident. We should all try to put the fire out, but we should not succeed, naturally. These old places burn well. You understand? Well then, good-night—and see that you don’t call me too soon—versteht sich!’ The orderly chuckled, monsieur. Mon Dieu! Monsieur et madame, le pauvre capitaine! Ah ciel! Quelle horreur!”

IV

The old man sank back in his chair, half fainting. Burton gave him more brandy. Aghast at the atrocious villainy of the scheme—incredible but for the crimes which had already stained the German arms—he was for the moment unable to think of anything but the scene he saw in imagination—flames illuminating the dawn, eating away the staircase, enclosing the three helpless people above in a fiery furnace.

The old man groaned aloud.

“Take care!” whispered Burton. “Tell me, are there arms in the house?”

“Why, yes, monsieur; a rifle and two revolvers, in the captain’s room—well hidden, par exemple!”

“Is there a back staircase to the upper rooms?”

“By that door yonder, monsieur,” replied Pierre, pointing to a small door in the corner.

“If anybody comes and asks about me, say that I have gone home. Pull yourself together for the sake of monsieur and madame.”

“But, monsieur——”

“Chut! The party is breaking up. Listen! They are going to their rooms in the east wing. Courage, my friend!”

He extinguished the oil lamp, pressed Pierre’s hand, and stole noiselessly through the door in the corner. It opened to a narrow staircase. At the head of this there was a passage leading between bedrooms to the main staircase farther along. There was no lamp in the passage, but a faint shine through a skylight lit dimly its farther end. And just as Burton gained the top step, and peered cautiously round the edge of the wall, he was amazed to see Major Schwikkard unlock a door on the left, and enter the room.

“Go into the next room,” came the curt command in French.

“Monsieur, I cannot leave my son,” protested the marquise. “Have you no humanity at all?”

“Gabble is useless. Go into the next room, and take the old man with you. Or shall I shoot him before your eyes?”

The two old people came into the passage, followed by the major, who hustled them into the adjoining apartment, locked them in, and returned. Burton, dreading lest he intended to proceed at once to extremes with the wounded man, and resolved at any cost to prevent it, darted on tip-toe along the passage to the room in which the marquis and his wife were shut up, silently unlocked the door, and whispering, “Courage, monsieur et madame: await my return,” he left them, and went to the next door. It was closed.

Through it he heard the German’s voice. It was no time to shirk risks. Grasping the handle firmly, he turned it, and gently pushed the door, little by little, until he could see into the room.

The German was seated on a chair by the bedside, his back to the door, ostentatiously cutting a fresh cigar. Beside him was a small cabinet with medicines. On it he had laid his revolver, out of the reach of the young soldier on the bed. They presented a strange contrast, the blond, bulky German, red-faced, brimming with physical energy, and the Frenchman, whose eyes, feverishly bright, gleamed out of pale sunken cheeks, and whose emaciated hands lay idle on the coverlet. His dark head propped on the pillow, he lay perfectly still, corpse-like save for his burning eyes.

“An excellent cigar!” said the German. “Who should know that better than I? Once more I am indebted to your amiable parents for their hospitality. I make my acknowledgments. Madame la marquise has been most attentive; she looked charming, if a little faded, in cap and apron; and you would have been delighted to see her handing the plates.”

The invalid’s fingers twitched; a flush mantled his cheeks. He tried to lift his head, but it sank back weakly upon the pillow. Burton felt that the German was watching his victim with malicious satisfaction. The shaft had struck home.

“Don’t rise, don’t rise, my dear sir. I realise how little our good German shells suit the constitution of you Frenchmen. You have no stamina, you know: a puff”—he blew out a cloud of smoke—“and you are gone!

“You scarcely hoped, perhaps, to see me again after our last parting at the gates of your hospitable château? You find it, perhaps, a strange chance that brings me again beneath this roof? Yet perhaps it is not so strange after all, for, helpless though I was at the time, I vowed that some day or other I would return. And thus we meet, sooner than I could have hoped—our parts somewhat changed. I was then a helpless German in France; you are now a helpless Frenchman in what is going to be Germany. When you were up and I was down, you heaped upon me insults and abuse, and struck me—me, a well-born Prussian!—because I did my duty to my country. Did you reflect? Did it ever cross your French mind that a German, a Junker, a soldier, a man of culture, would not brook the insolent perversity of one of your decadent race? Now I am up and you are down, and we can square accounts. You are to learn what it is to strike a German. Of this your château, of you and the vile French brood within it, there shall not remain to-morrow aught but ashes. That is what I have promised myself these three years. I will pay my vow!”

During this speech, hissed out in a tone of the bitterest rancour, the German had held his cigar between finger and thumb, lifting his hand now and then to emphasise his words. Perceiving that it had gone out, he cut another, lit it, and lolled insolently in his chair, his long legs stretched beneath the bed, as if gloating over his intended victim. The young captain had not uttered a word. No change of countenance revealed his feelings, or so much as hinted that he had heard the German’s tirade. His eyes appeared to look past his tormentor, but nothing in their expression warned Schwikkard of what he saw.

There was a brief interval of silence; then the German drew up his legs.

“Sleep well!” he said. “I assure you your sleep shall be a long one!”

He flicked the ash of his cigar into one of the medicine glasses, and was about to rise, when a hand shot over his shoulder, and grasped his revolver. Turning on his chair with a start, he flinched as his right ear touched the cold muzzle of a second revolver which Burton pointed at him.

“Sit down!” said Burton, quietly, in French. “If you make the slightest sound, I will shoot you on the spot.”

The German’s face blanched under its sun-tan. A muzzle to the right, a muzzle to the left, each within a few inches of his head! Speechless, he sank down into his chair, and the cigar fell upon the floor.

V

Covering the shrinking German with the revolvers, Burton glanced round the room, and moved towards an electric bell-push in one of the walls.

“Does it communicate with the kitchen?” he asked the wounded man, who nodded—weakness and the thrill of emotion bereft him of speech.

Burton rang the bell—a single sharp ring. In a few moments Pierre appeared. The expression of foreboding dread in his eyes gave way to consternation, joy, eagerness, in turn.

“Some stout cord, Pierre,” said Burton, “and shut the door behind you. My revolver may go off, and it would be a pity to disturb your master’s guests.”

The irony was lost upon Major Schwikkard. The turning of the tables seemed to have completely unnerved him. It is, perhaps, not true that all bullies are cowards at heart; but a man is tested by adversity.

Pierre soon returned with the cord, and in a few minutes he trussed the German securely, Burton standing over him with a revolver.

“Now a gag!” Burton said. “Take one of those strips of linen; monsieur le capitaine will spare us one of his bandages.”

At this the German found voice at last.

“You—you treacherous——”

“Not so loud, monsieur l’espion!” said Burton, fingering the revolver.

The German gurgled.

“You will—all be—shot,” he gasped, “as soon as they discover——”

“Allons!” exclaimed Pierre, thrusting the gag firmly between his jaws, “it is done, monsieur.”

“There is an unoccupied room, Pierre?” asked Burton.

“Assuredly, monsieur, at the end of the passage.”

“Then we will take him there, and tie him down on the bed. His friends will no doubt miss him in the morning, and release him—perhaps about breakfast time!”

Such was Burton’s contempt for the man that he felt no touch of compunction at the effect his words produced. Pierre and he were carrying the German between them. His staring eyes proclaimed an agony of terror. At dawn the wing was to be fired. He had carefully provided against premature discovery. His friends would be still sleeping off their liquor. He saw himself lost.

He writhed, his lips worked, but the inexorable gag prevented articulation. The two carried him into the farther room, laid him face upwards on the bed, and bound him firmly to the four posts. The moonlight, streaming through the window, threw a ghastly pallor upon his countenance. His eyes pled for mercy, and Burton, after a few moments’ hesitation, relented. If the terror-stricken wretch would show any spark of good feeling, he would relieve his fears. He loosed the gag.

Schwikkard gulped, moistened his lips, and spoke gaspingly.

“You have me in your power... but your revenge will recoil on you.... Release me; I will leave the château at once.... I will agree to any terms.... You shall go unharmed.”

“You would bribe me?” answered Burton, coldly, disgusted that the man had said no word of regret. “You have given us no reason to believe that your word is more to be trusted than any other German’s. We are not going to kill you, in spite of your threats to a helpless gentleman and your treatment of Madame. Your threats, perhaps, were not meant in earnest——”

“No, no,” cried the German eagerly. “It was only—only a joke.”

“Ah! such a joke is in very bad taste, so we will leave you to think it over.”

Remorselessly he replaced the gag, and they left him to his reflections.

Returning to the invalid’s room, they consulted in whispers. The captain had closed his eyes. Full of admiration for his self-control in giving no sign of having observed the stealthy approach from the door, Burton hoped that the wounded man might be strong enough to bear removal from the château to the curé’s house, and thence to the British lines.

“Can we move him?” he asked Pierre.

“Ah, no, monsieur,” replied the old man, bending over the bed and gazing with poignancy of affection at the haggard face. “It would kill him.”

Burton pondered, while Pierre spoke gently to his master’s son and poured wine between his lips. The captain’s eyes were eloquent of gratitude.

“There is only one thing to be done,” said Burton at last. “Our army is slowly advancing: we must hold the château until it comes.”

“But, monsieur, it is impossible!” cried the old man. “The Bosches are in the house: they fill the village.”

“True; but this wing is defensible against anything except artillery, and we have a valuable hostage in the major. Let us see what monsieur le marquis says.”

They went to the room where they had left the old general and his wife. Burton explained to the former what he had already done, and what he proposed to do. There was a gleam in the old soldier’s eyes.

“Ma foi, monsieur, la bonne idée!” he cried. “It makes me young again.” Then he glanced at his wife, and his face was full of trouble. “Chérie,” he said, “there will be danger. It will be no place for you. Will you not go to the curé’s? It is dark: Pierre would lead you across the fields.”

“Mon ami,” replied the old lady firmly, taking the general’s hand, “my place is with you and with Fernand. Is it for nothing that I am a soldier’s wife?”

The marquis pressed her hand; his eyes were moist.

“Monsieur, it shall be,” he said, simply, turning to Burton.

“Will you come with me then, monsieur?” said Burton. “Pierre, bring food and candles from the kitchen, also a chisel if you have one.”

The marquise returned to her son’s room; Burton, accompanied by the general, made a rapid tour of the floor. The head of the kitchen staircase came to the passage near the door of the servant’s bedroom in which the captain was now laid. The window of the room, overlooking the parterres in front of the house, was opposite the door. There were two doors, one on each side of the passage, opening into rooms both of which communicated with the bedroom. One of these had been temporarily occupied by monsieur and madame; in the other, Major Schwikkard was confined. At the farther end of the passage was a door opening on to a landing, from which the grand staircase descended to the hall below.

The general’s experienced eye marked the possibilities of the situation.

“They will come up the grand staircase, monsieur,” he said. “This door is our outer defence. We must barricade it. If they fire through it, their shots will fly straight along the passage to the door of my son’s room. They will hardly penetrate that and the barricade that we shall raise behind it. The Germans will break down this door and come into the passage. We must then defend the rooms.”

“And if they attack from the outside, monsieur?”

“The windows are shuttered. You observed that, and sent for a chisel—to loophole the shutters?”

“That was my idea.”

“It was good. We must barricade the shutters also in such a way that we can approach the loopholes obliquely. Their Mauser bullets will easily penetrate the shutters, although they are of oak.”

“Here is Pierre. We must be very quiet and very quick; the sentry below will wonder at the prolonged absence of his chief.”

“Is there a sentry?”

“There was to be. I will see.”

He tip-toed to the head of the grand staircase, and peeped over the rail. One of the orderlies was standing bolt upright against the door.

The three men removed their boots, and carried every portable piece of furniture to the doors and windows, piling them one upon another, and strutting them with chairs, towel horses, and other small objects. The chisel proved a useless tool for boring the hard oak. There was a fire in the captain’s room. Burton made a poker red hot, and with this burnt a few loopholes in the shutters. After nearly an hour’s strenuous work, carried on with extraordinary noiselessness, the preparations were made.

The old marquis was now trembling with excitement and fatigue. His wife gave him some wine, and, while he rested, Burton looked to the weapons. The German’s revolver and his own were full. The marquise brought out two more, a rifle, and ammunition, from the depths of a cupboard.

There was now only to await events. It was nearly midnight. How long would it be before the sentry became uneasy at his commander’s absence? With German stolidity, and the Prussian soldier’s fear of his officer, he might never think of moving from his post. But after a time he would certainly be relieved, and possibly a consultation with the relief would lead to action.

As Burton sat nursing the rifle, he was conscious of a smell of burning, distinct from the smell caused by boring the wood. Pierre had been absent for some little time in the room where the major lay. He came through the communicating door, followed by smoke. Burton started up.

“Have they set the place on fire already?” he asked.

“No, no, monsieur,” the man replied, with a strange smile. “I was merely burning some paper.”

Thinking that there were perhaps some documents which must not fall into the Germans’ hands, Burton asked no further questions. Once or twice again the same grim smile appeared about the old servitor’s lips, and Burton concluded that he was pleased at having accomplished a necessary task.

Two hours passed in almost silent waiting. The only movements were those of the marquise in tending her son. Then, about two o’clock, they heard some one try the handle of the door at the end of the passage. Burton had locked it. In a moment there was a tap at the door. No one answered. It was repeated, louder and more energetically. Burton nodded to Pierre.

“What is it?” the man asked in German.

“The Herr Major; is he here?”

“Yes; he is resting; he must not be disturbed.”

Footsteps were heard receding. The sentry was apparently satisfied.

“We must give them warning some time before dawn,” said Burton, “otherwise the man Vossling will carry out his orders, and set fire to the staircase.”

“Knowing that the major is in this wing?” said the general.

“He may not know that. On the other hand he may. Then he will suspect that something is wrong. In the one case, we should be burnt alive; in the other, the man would be uneasy and come to wake the major. But the longer we delay the more chance of relief. The sun rises at about half-past six; the place was to be fired before dawn. How will the orderly interpret his instructions?”

“It is a nice calculation,” said the marquis, who with renewed strength had recovered his keenness. “Will he wait until the darkness begins to thin, or abstain from setting up a rival to the sunlight? I do not know the German mind.”

Time dragged for Burton. The marquis and his man dozed; the marquise, in the intervals of her ministrations, read a book of Hours. The slow clock ticked on the mantelshelf; three struck, and four.

At a little after four there was a loud knock on the door.

“At last!” said Burton, half in relief, half in misgiving. The old men started up, and grasped each a revolver. The lady put down her book and clasped her hands on her lap, pressing her lips together as if to shut in a cry.

“Who is there?” demanded Burton in French.

“Where is Major Schwikkard?” came the answer. An officer was speaking.

Burton saw that further concealment was useless.

“He is here,” he called down the passage, “a prisoner.”

The German swore.

“You dogs! You imbeciles!” he shouted, shaking the door. “Let me in. What do you mean by this buffoonery? If it is your trick, you white-headed old fool, you shan’t escape hanging because you were once a soldier. You and your man are civilians in arms. You shall die by inches. Let me in, I say.”

There was no reply. The officer shook the door again.

“Force it with your shoulder, Vossling,” he said with an oath.

The door creaked, but the lock held. Next moment there was a crash; he had blown in the lock with a shot from his revolver. But the door banged against the wardrobe placed behind it. The German swore again. Then there was silence. In a few minutes, several voices were heard.

“Remove this barricade, you old French fools,” said the captain, in a voice thick with sleep, wine and rage, “or we will blow the place to atoms.”

“And Major Schwikkard?” said Burton, quietly.

“That is not an old man speaking,” said the captain to his companions. “There was no one else in the house except the old hag and the wounded man.”

“And the deaf mute,” said one of the others.

“Potztausend! If that dirty fellow has played tricks on us I will crop his ears and cut his tongue out. Give them a taste.”

Their revolvers spoke; three shots crashed through the wood, flew along the passage, through the open door opposite, and finally embedded themselves in the shutter. A moment later Burton, stepping to the edge of the doorway, lifted his rifle and fired. There was a cry from beyond the barricaded door, a volley of oaths, and a general stampede for safety to the landing.

For a few minutes there was silence. The marquise stroked her son’s hot brow. Then a fusillade burst through the door and the stout barricade behind it. The bullets pattered on the shutters, but the three men had stood back out of the line of fire. None of them was struck by a shot, but a splinter of wood from the wardrobe glanced off the inner door ami grazed Pierre’s cheek. Again and again the fusillade was repeated. The defenders, husbanding their ammunition, and careful not to expose themselves, did not reply; they waited in grim silence, to meet the enemy’s next move.

The failure of their efforts enraged and nonplussed the Germans. Warned by the shot that had wounded one of them, they made no attempt to storm the barricade. There was a short interval, and they were heard discussing the situation in low tones. The result was made clear in a few minutes. Bullets began to crash through the shutters to all the windows.

“They have brought up men from the village, and surrounded the wing,” said the general.

“We shall be in no danger,” said Burton. “Firing from the ground, their shots will go through the ceilings.”

In a short time this became apparent to the assailants. The attack ceased for a little; then, through the window of the room in which the major lay, bullets flew horizontally across the room, a few inches above his head.

“They will kill their own officer!” cried Burton. “We can’t leave him helpless in his present position.”

“He deserves no pity,” said the general. “Still, we are not Germans. My camp bed is there, lower than the bed he is on, and easily moved. Let us place him on that.”

“Mon Dieu! It is the bed you slept on in ’70, monsieur,” cried Pierre.

“What then, my friend?”

“It is sacrilege, monsieur; it is treason to France—pardon, mon maitre, I should not have said that, but it would tear my heart to see a German on that bed.”

“Let that be our revanche,” said the general, quietly.

“I hope a German bullet may find him,” muttered the old man, as the others released the stiff figure upon the bed. They kept on their knees to avoid the flying bullets, and so transferred the German from the larger bedstead to the low single bed on which the general had made the campaign of ’70. They placed it against the wall in the corner near the window, out of danger. Leaving Pierre on his knees to fire up if any German tried to enter the room through the window, they returned to the invalid’s bedroom.

“Strange that they should be so reckless of killing their own officer,” remarked Burton.

“They are callous ruffians,” the general replied. “Besides, it is war; one life is of little account. That is what we all have to remember. The individual life is nothing; the cause is all.”

The passage and the rooms were filling with suffocating fumes. The noise of shots, of splintering wood, of shouting men, was incessant. Hitherto, save for the single rifle shot fired by Burton, the defenders had not used their weapons. At the end of the passage they could not have escaped the hail of bullets; from the side doors they could not take direct aim. But the attack had now become so violent that reprisals must be attempted, or the defences would be utterly shattered. An idea came suddenly to Burton. Closing the door leading to the sick man’s room, so that the passage was completely dark, he passed into the next room, shoved a table through the doorway, set a chair upon it, and waiting until there was a slight lull in the attack, climbed upon the chair.

Standing thus above the enemy’s line of fire, and in darkness, he was able to see, through the gaps made in the barricade and the door, a faint light filtering through from the lamp in the hall below. A crowd of Germans had come quite close to the door, and were thrusting their rifles through the jagged rents in the panels. Burton took careful aim at one of them, fired, and a yell proclaimed that his bullet had gone home. A second shot claimed its victim. Then the enemy, cursing with rage, rushed back from the door, and for a time continued firing from the angles of the landing.

Meanwhile the window at which Pierre was left had been driven in, shutter and all, by repeated blows of an axe wielded by a man mounted on a ladder. The old man fired just as the German was stepping from the ladder to the window-sill. Shot through the heart, the intruder fell headlong. None of his comrades was bold enough to emulate his daring.

The general had been chafing at his inability to take a positive part in the fight. Stimulated by the success Burton had had from his post of vantage, the old warrior’s Gallic spirit threw aside caution. Slipping into the passage, he was in the act of placing another chair on the table when a bullet fired from the angle on the landing struck a brass bracket on the wall at his left, rebounded from it, and buried itself with a splinter of brass in the old man’s arm. He reeled. Burton sprang down to assist him, and carried him fainting into the bedroom, where his wife received him into her arms.

“Hard luck!” thought Burton, for the shot that wounded the general was the last to be fired for a considerable time.

VI

The enemy ceased firing, both within the château and without. Wondering what their next move would be, Burton remained heedfully on guard, rifle in hand. Pierre, overcome with grief at the collapse of his master, was assisting the marquise to restore him and to bind up his wound.

Presently the German’s voice came through the door.

“General du Breuil!”

“What do you want?” Burton called.

“You treacherous hound! I have nothing to say to you,” cried the German, angrily. “I speak to the general.”

“The general deputes me to answer for him. If you will not speak to me, you will go unanswered.”

“Who are you?” the German asked with an oath.

“The general’s deputy,” replied Burton.

“That will not avail you,” cried the officer, sneeringly. “I have sent to the village to fetch that rascally smith who assisted your imposture. When he has told me who you are, he shall be deaf and dumb for his last minute in life.”

Burton felt chill from top to toe. He had not thought of the peril in which his stratagem might involve the smith. The Germans were capable of any enormity. But he could do nothing—except gain time. Would the British advance guard arrive before all was lost?

“Well, if the general chooses to employ a cur as his deputy, so be it,” the German went on. “Like man, like master. Take this message to the general: If he does not yield, I will fire the château.”

“And if we surrender?” said Burton.

“We will deal with him as a soldier. He will be tried by court-martial.”

“On what charge?”

“That, having been a soldier, with no excuse of ignorance of the laws of war, he, as a civilian, resists the military power.”

“And if he is found guilty?”

“His fate will lie in the discretion of the court.”

“And his old servant?”

The German, anxious to gain his ends without further fighting, hesitated, then replied, equivocally—

“The court will decide.”

“And myself?”

“The court will decide,” replied the officer, impatiently.

“Is that all?”

The German smote the door angrily.

“Your answer!” he cried.

“You will give us a few minutes for consultation?”

“Five minutes: no more.”

Burton stood on his chair, holding his rifle.

“I heard it, monsieur,” said the voice of the marquise in an undertone behind him. “My poor husband is incapable of speech. We must leave all to you. But can we resist fire?”

“Madame, I seek to gain time. We can expect no mercy from the Germans. There is but one hope—that our army will arrive in time. If that hope fails——”

“Spare us fire, monsieur, I implore you. It is frightful.”

She wrung her hands piteously.

“Trust me, madame; hope, and pray,” said Burton.

When the five minutes were up, the German hailed him. “Your answer—quickly.”

“Monsieur le capitaine,” said Burton, suavely, “we cannot surrender yet. We should like to kill a few more Germans.”

The officer let out a vicious oath.

“Then roast!” he cried. “You and the rest.”

“Including your worthy commandant, mon capitaine? Don’t forget him.”

“You have murdered him.”

“That is the explanation of their reckless shooting,” thought Burton. He replied: “Not at all. We are not Germans.”

“You lie!” cried the captain, whose anger was rapidly getting the better of him.

“Did I not remind you, monsieur, that we are not Germans?”

The officer was speechless with rage. Burton imagined his quandary. It would be awkward for him if he set fire to the château and burnt his superior. His next words showed his state of mind.

“You say Major Schwikkard is alive. Prove it.”

“Nothing easier, mon capitaine,” said Burton. “You must give me a few minutes. He is a heavy man.”

He saw that there was nothing to lose, possibly something to gain, by convincing the German. Slipping down from his perch, he hurried to Pierre, who was kneeling at his master’s chair.

“Come with me,” he said, and led him into the room where the major lay gagged and bound. The bed was a light one. They carried it to the window, and tilted it on end. Leaving Pierre to maintain it in that position, Burton returned to the chair, and kept silence until the captain impatiently demanded his proofs.

“I must trouble you to descend and go to the rear of the wing, monsieur,” said Burton. “It is dark: no doubt you have a flashlight?”

“We have; what then? Do not play with me.”

“Far from it, monsieur. I am aware of the gravity of your position. Go down to the garden at the rear, and look up at the window that will then face you. But do not flash your light up until I give the word.”

The German snarled under his breath. Burton caught the sounds of a whispered consultation at the stair-head. A minute or two later the officer called up from the garden. Burton withdrew the piled-up furniture, opened the shutters, and helped Pierre to lift the bed, tilted as it was, to the window. The major’s form, stretched upon it, somewhat resembled a mummy in a case.

“Now, monsieur!” Burton called.

The glaring light of an acetylene lamp was thrown up towards the window. It fell on the major’s face, which, ghastly in itself, looked death-like in the glare.

“He is dead!” the captain shouted.

“Not at all—only afraid; he overheard your amiable intentions. We will demonstrate.” He turned to Pierre, saying: “Fetch some pepper.”

“There is none upstairs, monsieur. I dare not go below.”

“Some snuff?”

“Ah, oui! monsieur le marquis likes his pinch. A moment, monsieur.”

He went into the bedroom, took a snuff-box from his master’s pocket, and returned. Burton opened the box, took a large pinch of snuff, and held it to the major’s nose. There was a slight but dramatic pause. All was silent. Then the major’s features became convulsed, and the silence was rent by a resounding sneeze.

“Now, monsieur le capitaine,” cried Burton, “could a dead German sneeze like that?”

There were snarls of rage from below, mingled, Burton thought, with suppressed laughter from some of the troopers who had gathered in the background behind their officers.

“With your good pleasure we will resume our interesting conversation above,” said Burton.

With Pierre he lowered the bed and carried it back to its former position. Then he replaced the shutters.

“Another ten minutes gained,” he thought.

The ten minutes were prolonged to fifteen. The captain was consulting with his subordinates. Presently he called through the door—

“Are you there?”

“Always at your service, monsieur.”

“Seeing that Major Schwikkard is apparently alive, we will permit you to surrender on terms.”

“What terms, monsieur?”

“You shall be allowed to pass through the German lines.”

“I should like to consult the general, monsieur,” said Burton, still talking to gain time.

“Five minutes.”

“Let us say ten, monsieur,” Burton pleaded. “It is, you will admit, a serious matter.”

“Ten, then; not a minute more.”

At the end of the ten minutes the captain called for an answer.

“The general wishes to know, monsieur, what guarantee he has for safety.”

“The word of a German officer,” snarled the captain. “Be quick!”

Waiting a minute or so, Burton said—

“The general has a little difficulty in making up his mind—pardonable at his age. You give him another ten minutes, monsieur?”

“Three; not a second more,” cried the German, completely hoodwinked by Burton’s tone, and unaware of the vital consideration in Burton’s mind—the return of Captain Rolfe to head-quarters.

“Very well, monsieur. I will bring the general’s answer in three minutes.”

The marquise and Pierre were holding their breath. The same thought possessed them both; to what lengths would this audacious Englishman go?

The period elapsed; the captain called peremptorily for an answer.

“The general, monsieur, has considered your offer,” said Burton, “and he feels safer where he is.”

At last the German’s besotted intelligence was penetrated by the suspicion that he had been played with. He poured out his venom in a torrent of virulent abuse, snatched at his revolver, and fired point-blank into the darkness. The bullet struck one of the legs of Burton’s chair, the chair broke under him, and he fell with a crash. The effect of the shot, heard but not seen by the Germans, was hailed by them with a shout of triumph. But Burton crawled into the bedroom, with no worse injury than bruised elbows and shins.

VII

Into the next few minutes were crowded, as it seemed to Burton in reminiscence, the events of hours. Emboldened by the supposed success of the captain’s shot, the Germans renewed the attack with great violence and determination, both within and without. Repeated onslaughts were made on the tottering door, which was now almost completely splintered, and on the barricade of furniture behind it. Burton had lost no time in replacing the broken chair, and twice his steady fire from near the ceiling sent the attackers back in a disorderly heap.

Meanwhile two of the windows and their shutters had been riddled by long-distance fire, and men were again mounting on ladders to break into the rooms. At one, Pierre played a manful part; at the other, the general, bracing himself as the peril grew greater, stood holding his revolver in his left hand, and shot man after man.

The grey light of early morning was now stealing into the room, depriving the defenders of the advantage of darkness. The shouts of the men, the reports of the guns, the suffocating fumes, made the place an inferno. At the bedside the marquise still bravely held her post. Burton was too busy to notice the extreme pallor of her face, the trembling of her hands, the agonised look of terror in her eyes.

With a wild shout the infuriated Germans crashed through the broken door, and began to pull away the barricade at the end of the passage. While they were doing so, it was impossible for their comrades to continue firing; the attack was interrupted, and Burton shot down many of the enemy among the pile of shattered furniture. But he recognised that, the Germans having won an entrance to the passage, it was only a question of minutes before the defence was overwhelmed.

At this moment he heard a groan in his rear. Pierre, badly hit, had staggered from the window he had been defending through the communicating doorway into the invalid’s room. “It is all over with me!” he moaned, sinking at his mistress’s feet. The crack of the general’s revolver still sounded at short intervals from the next room. Here and there the woodwork was smouldering; before long it would burst into flames.

“There is only one thing to be done,” thought Burton, resolved to maintain the struggle to the end, desperate as the position was. “We must keep together, and make a last stand at the captain’s bed.”

Filling his magazine, he poured shot after shot into the enemy crowding in the doorway and bursting through the barrier. The survivors reeled back under this withering fire, giving Burton time to leap from his perch, run into the room, and call the general to his side. Pierre was helpless, the invalid was half dead, only the general and Burton remained to stem a tide which would soon flow back with tenfold force along the passage.

The two men posted themselves before the bed, ready to meet the final rush. Unknown to them, the marquise had taken the revolver from Pierre’s hand and stood in front of her son, like a lioness defending her cub. The attack was renewed simultaneously on all sides, but a strange inadvertence on the part of the enemy intervened to deal a partial check. They were shooting from the demolished barricade at the end of the passage. At the same time their comrades outside had begun to fire through the window in a direct line with it. Several of the Germans in the passage fell to the bullets of their own friends.

Growling at this mishap, the unwounded men broke through the doors at the sides into the rooms. Burton had closed and barricaded, as well as he could, the communicating doors, but he felt with a sinking heart that a few seconds would bring the unequal contest to its inevitable end.

The din was terrific, and with it was now mingled a surprising sound from outside the house.

“A machine-gun!” said Burton to himself. “They will shatter their own men!” He had no more time to think about it. The door of the room to his left fell in with a crash; in the glimmer of dawn the opening was crowded with Germans. Burton and the general emptied their revolvers into the mass; it collapsed, and the two men hastily filled their chambers to meet the next, the final rush.

But there was a strange lull in the rifle fire. From outside again came the rattle of a machine-gun, and, in a momentary interval of silence, Burton caught the sound of cheers. Surely they were not German cheers? He thrilled with the conviction that the voices this time had the true British ring. He waited the expected rush; it did not come. The doorway was clear; heavy feet were trampling in frenzied haste along the passage. With the intermittent rattle of machine-guns close at hand came unmistakable British shouts.

Burton rushed to the window. The shutters were now in flames. Wrenching away the bars, he thrust his head through the shattered glass, and joyfully hailed the khaki-clad Lancers who had reined up below. There was not a living German to be seen. The greensward and the trampled parterres were strewn with prostrate forms. And with a rattle and clank a battery of horse artillery galloped upon the scene.

“We are saved, madame!” cried Burton, turning back into the room. “Our Lancers have put the Germans to flight.”

“Dieu merci!” murmured the lady, falling on her knees at the bedside.

“Ah, les braves Anglais!” said the marquis, grasping Burton’s right hand with his left, and jerking his arm up and down like a pump handle.

They looked at old Pierre, who had raised himself, and was feebly shouting: “Vivent les Anglais! Vive monsieur le sourd-muet!”

Then, to Burton’s amazement, he cracked his fingers, and laughed like a lunatic.

“The poor fellow’s brain is turned,” said the marquis.

“No, no, monsieur, I am not crazy. Ah, ah! it was a trick to play!”

“What are you raving about, mon vieux?” asked the marquis.

“The smoke, monsieur! The paper! I gave the spy Schwikkard a foretaste. Ha! Surely he believed his last hour was come. See, monsieur, I burnt some brown paper in the stove under his nose. He would fire the château! Eh bien! assuredly he believed it was already on fire. It was drôle, monsieur—fine trick, n’est-ce pas?”

“Schwikkard is our prisoner, without doubt,” said Burton to the marquis. “Shall we untie him?”

At this moment entered Major Colpus of the Lancers, stepping gingerly over the wreck of door and furniture.

“A pretty mess they have made of it,” he said, with double intent. “You are Burton?”

“That’s my name.”

“Captain Rolfe told us we should catch a half-regiment of hussars if we hurried. He rather expected you would be a prisoner. We got to the village just as some of the Germans were hauling away one Boitelet, the village smith, it appears. They left him to us, and he gave us an inkling that you were concerned in the rumpus here. The Germans have skedaddled; we have a few prisoners below. You have had a whack or two, I see.”

“I wasn’t aware of it,” said Burton, looking with surprise at dark stains on his blouse. “The marquis and his man are both wounded.”

“Glad to meet you, monsieur,” said the officer, who, with British shyness, had affected to ignore the presence of all but Burton. Now, however, he greeted monsieur and madame courteously, knelt down and rendered capable first-aid to the marquis and Pierre, and seeing at a glance that the man in bed was very ill, dispatched Burton for the regimental medico.

It was not until the doctor was engaged with his patients that Burton found an opportunity of releasing Major Schwikkard, and handing him as a prisoner to the British officer. He was scarcely recognisable. The long vigil, with the dread of being roasted by his own instructions, had broken him both in body and mind. He looked years older. His cheeks had fallen in, his whole frame shook, and his hair was patched with white. When Major Colpus addressed him cheerily, he stammered, tried to complete a sentence, and burst into tears.

“Poor wretch!” the major murmured. “Doctor, here’s another patient for you. Now, Mr. Burton, come and tell me all that has happened.”

“I want to get back to my aeroplane,” protested Burton.

“No hurry for that. Your friend, the smith, has borrowed a spare mount, and ridden off to the town to fetch something or other for it. I shan’t let you off.”

Burton growled that there was not much to tell, and turned to take his leave of the old marquis and his wife. In their over-flowing emotion they could hardly speak.

“God bless you, monsieur!” said the marquise, brokenly. “You have saved us all. Your doctor says that my son will recover. Take a mother’s thanks, and wear this, monsieur. May the good God preserve you!”

She took from her neck a chain bearing a richly jewelled cross, and pressed it into Burton’s hand. He bade them good-bye.

“Adieu, monsieur!” said old Pierre, as Burton shook hands with him. “The wound—it is nothing. Your good doctor has stitched it up. I was not born to be killed by a Bosche. Ah, ça! It was a good trick, monsieur, n’est-ce pas?”