George Gibbs - The Golden Bough

In the still evening air the dust hung golden for a moment and then slowly settled on tree and hedgerow; from a distance, faintly diminishing, the tinkle of sheep bells, the call of a bird, the sighing of a breeze, and then, silence.

Against the stillness, suddenly, as though pricked upon the velvety background of the summer night, a quick, sharp staccato note near at hand, a crackle as of brittle things breaking and a large thorn bush by the side of the deserted road quivered and shook as its leaves parted and a head appeared.

It was an eager, boyish head, but almost unpleasantly alert, its brows furrowing, its dark eyes peering to right and left, with a swift furtiveness that held little of assurance. A moment of quick inspection and a pair of broad shoulders emerged, followed by a body and long legs which strode into the middle of the road where the man paused a moment looking at the afterglow in the west and then set off with long steps to the south. He wore what had once been a uniform of the Légionnaire, but rough contacts and hard usage had eliminated all distinguishing marks, and a coating of dust and stain had further disguised him. It seemed as though Nature, conspiring as it does against the enemies of its wild people, had given this man its protective coloring, that he might elude those who sought him. To carry the analogy further he was shaggy, unkempt, dusty and lean, like a brown bear sniffing the breeze after a long period of hibernation.

The stride was rapid but it was cautious too and once at a fancied shadow in the road ahead of him, the soldier darted into the bushes and crouched listening. Fear had made him cautious, but his necessity knew no law, so he rose at last, went onward more rapidly into the gathering dusk, aware that the end of his pilgrimage was near at hand-there just beyond the hills before him in the free republic of the Swiss.

As he neared the lights of the village, his pace grew slower, and leaving the road he turned into a meadow to his right in the direction of a grove of trees which seemed to promise a temporary refuge while he planned a raid upon some nearby larder or hen-roost. But contrary to his expectations, when he reached the shadows of the trees, he found his way impeded by a high stone wall, which thrust suddenly upon him out of the darkness. A wall! A monastery? Or a barracks perhaps, full of the hated gray uniforms guarding the frontier! He paused a moment, deliberating, but conscious of more than a mild curiosity as to the purpose of this walled enclosure, high up on this mountain side which seemed so peaceful and so free from the horrors he had left back there in the levels below. Only yesterday, down the valley he had seen them-the gray uniforms-and here too, at any moment…

He grinned at the wall. He was weary of flight. A wall. A garden within-a monastery most likely … sanctuary… At any rate he could go no further without food. This place would do as well as another. If there were monks within there would also be a kitchen and with such a wall, a larder unguarded. Moving to the right he found a tree the lower branches of which extended over the coping of the wall. At the foot of the tree he paused again, looking upward curiously, for upon the leaves of the tree he saw the reflection of yellow lights which seemed to be moving within the enclosure. Climbing noiselessly he drew himself to the level of the coping of the wall, and peered over. Through the foliage of his tree he could distinguish nothing clearly but he was aware of a lantern and a figure which moved slowly in an open space just beyond the thicket below him. It seemed that the figure wore a hood upon its head, and a gown. A monastery, of course-and this a monk, the gardener perhaps upon a lonely vigil of penance and meditation.

In any event the fugitive was now in no immediate danger from his pursuers, so he crawled out along a heavy branch of the tree which extended over the garden and noiselessly lowered himself to the top of the wall.

Here he hung in a moment of indecision, preparing an avenue of escape should his venture prove hazardous, and then peering again toward the dark habit of the holy man, now in silhouette against the light, he lowered himself by his hands and dropped to the ground. Danger had made him skillful, but he was aware of the thud of his heavy boots in the soft loam and crouched cautiously behind the thicket, ready for the slightest movement of alarm in the figure by the lantern. After a moment in which he reassured himself that the sound of his fall had not awakened the watcher from his revery he crawled forward until he reached the furthermost bush where he paused again, still in hiding and peered across the small stretch of lawn toward the light.

There was a raised daïs or platform of earth, approached from two sides by steps of stone. There were two stone benches above, and upon one of them, leaning forward toward a small oak tree in the center of the guarded space, sat the dark figure which had carried the lantern. The eyes of the Légionnaire, now grown accustomed to the glow of the light, made sure that the figure had not moved, nor was aware of his silent and furtive approach. Two plans of action suggested themselves, one to move behind the foliage to the right and intercept the monk with the lantern should he attempt to flee toward the lights of the house nearby, the other to risk all in a frank statement, a plea for charity and asylum.

But as the figure remained as before, staring past the lantern at the solitary oak tree as though lost in contemplation of its branches, the Légionnaire rose, silently crossed the lawn, and reached the stone steps where the crackle of a twig beneath his foot with a sudden and startling clearness revealed his presence. He was aware of the dark figure above him springing to its feet and turning with a swift graceful motion which swept the dark cowl from its curly head and betrayed the identity of its owner-a girl-quite lovely in her fear of this tattered brown ghost that had come upon her vigils.

In an awed whisper, she spoke a few words in a language he did not understand and then was silent, watching him, frightened.

"Bitte, Fräulein," he began softly.

The sound of his voice reassured her. She turned toward him and seemed to search his figure more intently. And then in French peremptorily, "What do you want? Who are you?" she said.

At the sound of the French tongue spoken rapidly and without a trace of accent, the brown ghost smiled eagerly. "Ah, Mademoiselle is French. Then I am sure of her charity and forgiveness."

He had put one foot upon the lowest step of the daïs when she took a pace toward him and extended her cloaked arms as though barring the way, repeating her former questions.

"What are you doing here? And what do you want?" "I am hungry, Mademoiselle, also thirsty, for I have come far."

Her glance swept his figure and then, as though identifying him, returned with more assurance to his face.

"You are a soldier, a Frenchman?"

"A soldier-" He hesitated, looking down at his tattered sleeve. And then more deliberately as his gaze sought her face, "Mademoiselle is not a German. No German speaks French as you do."

"And what?"

"Merely that I am an escaped prisoner of Germany on my way to Switzerland," he smiled. "You see, I am frank with you. Something tells me that you're friendly."

"Switzerland!" she said. "Did you not know that you were already fifteen kilometers within the Swiss border?"

"Switzerland? Here?" The mingled expression of bewilderment and surprise upon his dirty face was comical.

"Switzerland!" he gasped again.

"You must have passed the frontier in the night," added the girl. "You're quite safe now, I should say."