Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

"Mother," she said, "that boar's tusks may poison him. Won't you make him let us bandage it properly?"

"I think you had better, Harry," said Mrs. Courland, rising.

"Oh, no; it's all right―"

"Harry!" That was all Valentine said. But he stopped short.

"Take his other arm, mother," said the girl with decision.

She looked over her shoulder at Karen; the two young girls exchanged a smile; then Valentine marched off with her colossal liar.

Michaud, head forester, had taken off his grey felt hat respectfully when Valentine introduced him to Guild, there in the lantern light of the winter sheep fold. A dozen or more men standing near by in shadowy groups had silently uncovered at the same time. Two wise–looking sheep dogs, squatted on their haunches, looked at him.

Then the girl had left Guild there and returned to the house.

"I should like to have a few moments quiet conversation with you," said Guild; and the stalwart, white–haired forester stepped quietly aside with him, following the younger man until they were out of earshot of those gathered by the barred gate of the fold.

"You are Belgian?" inquired Guild pleasantly.

" De Trois Fontaines, monsieur. "

It was a characteristic reply. A Belgian does not call himself a Belgian. Always he designates his nationality by naming his birthplace—as though the world must know that it is in Belgium.

"And those people over there by the sheep fold?" asked Guild.

"Our men—some of them—from Ixl, from the Black Erenz and the White, from Lesse—one from Liège. And there is one, a stranger."

"From where?"

"Moresnet."

"Has he any political opinions?"

"He says his heart is with us. It is mostly that way in Moresnet."

"In Moresnet ten per cent of the people are Germans in sympathy," remarked Guild. "What is this man? A miner?"

"A charcoal burner."

"Does he seem honest?"

"Yes, Monsieur," said the honest forester, simply.

Guild laid one hand on the man's broad shoulder:

"Michaud," he said quietly, "I know I am among friends if you say I am. I mean friends to Belgium."

The dark eyes of the tall forester seemed to emit a sudden sparkle in the dusk.

"Monsieur is American?"

"Yes. My grandfather was Belgian."

"Monsieur is a friend?"

"Michaud, my name, in America is Guild. My name in Belgian is Kervyn Gueldres. Judge, then, whether I am a friend to your country and your king."

"Gueldres!" whispered the forester, rigid. "Kervyn of Gueldres, Comte d'Yvoir, Hastiere―"

"It is so written on the rolls of the Guides."

"Monsieur le Comte has served!"

"Two years with the colours. I am here to report for duty. Do you feel safe to trust me now, Michaud, my friend?"

The tall, straight forester uncovered. "Trust a Gueldres! My God!"

"Put on your hat," said Guild, bluntly, "I am American when I deal with men!"

"Monsieur le Comte―"

"'Monsieur' will do. Give me your hand! That is as it should be. We understand each other I think. Now tell me very clearly exactly what happened this morning on the hill meadows of the Paillard estate."

"Monsieur le―"

"Please remember!"

"Pardon! Monsieur Guild, the Grey Uhlans rode over the border and laughed at the gendarme on duty. Straight they made for our hill meadows, riding at ease and putting their horses to the hedges. Schultz, our herdsman, saw them trotting like wolves of the Black Erenz, ran to the wooden fence to close the gate, but their lances rattling on the pickets frightened him.

"They herded the cattle while their officers sat looking on by the summer fold.

"'Do not these cattle and sheep belong to the Paillard estate?' asks one of the officers of Schultz. And, 'Very well then!' says he; 'we are liquidating an old account with Monsieur Paillard!'

"And with that a company of the Grey Ones canters away across the valley and up the slope beyond where our shepherd, Jean Pascal, is sitting with his two dogs.

"'You, there!' they call out to him. 'Send out your dogs and herd your sheep!' And, when he only gapes at them, one of their riders wheels on him, twirling his lance and shoves him with the counter–balance.

"So they make him drive his flock for them across the valley, and then over the border—all the way on foot, Monsieur; and then they tell him to loiter no more but to go about his business.

"That is what has happened on our hill pasture. He, the lad, Pascal, is over there with his dogs"—pointing toward the fold—"almost crazed with grief and shame. And, Schultz, he wishes us to organize as a franc–corps. Me? I don't know what to do—what with Monsieur Paillard away, and the forests in my care. Were it not for my responsibility―"

"I know, Michaud. But what could an isolated franc–corps do? Far better to join your class if you can—when your responsibility here permits. Those young men, there, should try to do the same."

"Monsieur is right! Even the classes of 1915, '16, and '17 have been called. I have reminded them. But this outrage on the hill pastures has inflamed them and made hot–heads of everybody. They wish to take their guns and hunt Grey Uhlans. They don't know what they are proposing. I saw something of that in '70. Why the Prussians hung or shot every franc–tireur they caught; and invariably the nearest village was burned. And I say to them that even if Monsieur Paillard is dead, as many are beginning to believe, his death does not alter our responsibility. Why should we bring reprisals upon his roof, his fields, his forests? No, that is not honest conduct. But if we are now really convinced of his death, as soon as Madame Courland leaves, let us turn over the estate to the proper authorities in Luxembourg. Then will each and all of us be free to join the colours when summoned—if God will only show us how to do it."

"Madame Courland and mademoiselle ought to go tomorrow," said Guild. "One or another of your hotheads over there might get us into trouble this very night."

"The man from Moresnet talks loudest. I have tried to reason with him," said Michaud. "Would you come to the fold with me?"

They walked together toward the lantern light; the men standing there turned toward them and ceased their excited conversation.

"Friends," said old Michaud simply, "this gentleman's name is Kervyn of Gueldres. I think that is sufficient for any Belgian, or for any man from the Grand Duchy?"

Off came every hat.

"Cover yourselves," continued Michaud calmly. "Monsieur, who has become an American, desires to be known as Monsieur Guild without further mark of respect. This also is sufficient for us all, I suppose. Thou! Jean Pascal, cease thy complaints and stand straight and wipe thy tears. By God, I think there are other considerations in Lesse Forest than the loss of thy sheep and of Schultz's cattle!"

"M–my sheep are gone!" blubbered the boy, "I was too cowardly to defend them―"

"Be quiet," said Guild. "It was not a question of your courage! You did wisely. Show equal wisdom now."

"But I shall go after Uhlans now with my fusil–de–chasse! Ah, the cowards of Germans! Ah, the brigands―"

"Cowards! Assassins!" muttered the other. "Grey wolves run when a man goes after them―"

"You are wrong," said Guild quietly. "Germans are no cowards. If they were there would be no credit for us in fighting them. Don't make any mistake you men of the Ardennes; their soldiers are as brave as any soldiers. And where you belong is with your colours, with your classes, and in uniform. That's where I also belong; that's where I am going if I can find out how to go. Perhaps one of you can guide me. Think it over. Keep cool, and listen to Michaud, who is older and wiser than all of us."