Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

He looked around at the dozen shadowy figures gathering in the carrefour; the star–light sparkled on guns and belts and slings, and here and there on the vizor of a casquette–de–chasse.

"The Grey Wolves," said Michaud, "can never find us in The Pulpit. If Monsieur is ready?"

"Quite ready," said Guild. And the shadowy file, led by Michaud, moved straight into the woods.

The stars had faded; a watery grey light glimmered through the forest. Deer crossed the grassy carrefour by the shrine, picking a dainty way toward forest depths; rabbits hopped homeward through dew–drenched ferns and bracken; a cock–pheasant saluted the dawn; the last wild boar still lingered amid the beech mast, rooting, coughing, following the furrows that his bristly snout was making while his furry bat–like ears, cocked forward, remained on duty, and his tail wriggled pleasurably.

The silent watchers aloft behind the rocky escarpement of The Pulpit, looking down through leafy branches to the carrefour, saw the last little roedeer trot past on his fastidious way; saw the last rabbit vanish in the warren; saw the lone boar lift his huge and shaggy head to listen with piggish suspicion, then turn and go, silent as some monstrous spectre.

From under hazel bushes pheasants stepped out to ruffle and preen and peck pensively among the fallen leaves, awaiting the promise of the sun, their white collars gleamed below their gorgeous heads; the sombre splendour of their plumage made brilliant spots along the ride. Here and there a hen–pheasant crept modestly about the business of breakfast. A blue and rosy jay alighted near, sign that the forest peace promised to endure.

After a long while far in the west the grey was touched with rose. Darrel, lying beside Guild, chin on his folded arms, stirred slightly.

"Sunrise," he said.

Michaud, on the other side, reared himself on his hands and lay watching the west.

"It is too early for the sun," he said. "That is a fire."

Pinker, ruddier, redder grew the western sky. Silent, intent, forester, garde–de–chasse, charcoal burner, strained their keen eyes.

Then a heavy sigh like a groan escaped Michaud.

"The Lodge," he said, hoarsely, under his breath. "Oh God, my master's home."

All around among the rocks men were drawing deep breaths, muttering, restless; their eyes were fixed like the eyes of caged wild things.

"The Grey Wolves," growled an old garde—"Ah, the cowards—the dirty Prussian whelps! Ah! Look at that; my God! Marie adored, Virgin of Lesse; stand by us now!"

Against the sky specks like tinsel twinkled; smoke became visible.

"House, stables, granneries, quarters, garage, all are on fire," said Michaud in a mechanical voice. His face was grey and without expression, his words accentless.

The smoke appeared further north.

"The cattle–barns and the hay–stacks," he went on monotonously…. Beyond are the green–houses, runs, dove–cotes, and our little shop…. They are now afire…Everything is on fire. Lesse is burning, burning…. The stubble beyond is burning…. And beyond that the nursery acres—the seedlings and the—Marie adored, Virgin of Lesse, have pity on my little trees—my nurslings—my darlings―"

"Hark!" whispered Guild. Far away up the ride horses were coming at a heavy trot; and now the noise of wheels became audible. And now below them two German dragoons cantered into view, carbines poised; a waggon passed—a strange grey vehicle driven by a grey–clad soldier wearing a vizorless forage cap. It was piled with dead pigeons and chickens. Behind that another waggon followed, all splashed with blood, and in it swayed and jolted the carcasses of dead pigs freshly killed, lurching and slipping over the crimsoned straw. Behind galloped six Uhlans, their lances perpendicular in the buckets, the cords from their cloth–covered schapskas bellying behind.

"Not a shot!" said Michaud in a perfectly distinct voice, pushing up the rifle of the old garde–de–chasse. "There is nothing to do now, nom de Dieu!—for the necks of our fowls are already wrung and the dead hogs are tasting their own boudin . Our affair is with the living pigs."

After a few moments more dragoons came, trotting their superb horses along the ride, alertly scanning the woods to right and left as they passed, their carbines at a ready.

Waggons followed—hay waggons, carts loaded with potato sacks, straw, apples, bags of flour, even firewood and bundles of faggots—a dozen vehicles or more of every description.

"Ours," said Michaud in his emotionless tones. "What they could not take is burning yonder."

More grey dragoons closed the file of waggons, then a dozen Uhlans, who turned frequently in their saddles and kept looking back.

"Scoundrels!" muttered the garde–de–chasse, laying his rifle level; but Michaud turned on him and struck up the weapon.

"Thou!" he said coldly—"do thy duty when I tell thee, or I become angry."

Somebody said: "There are no more. We have not bled one single wolf!"

"Look yonder," whispered Guild.

Out into the carrefour stepped briskly eight or ten German officers, smart and elegant and trim in their sea–grey uniforms and their spiked helmets shrouded with grey so that there was not a glitter from point to spur.

A dozen non–commissioned officers followed, carrying two military rifles apiece.

The officers looked curiously at the shrine of Our Lady of Lesse, and the sad–faced Virgin looked back at them out of her carven and sightless eyes.

One by one the officers took posts at the four corners of the grassy clearing or on the steps of the shrine. They were laughing and conversing; some smoked; some inspected the rifles brought up by their non–com gun–bearers. The sun had not yet risen; the silvery smoke of the Silverwiltz marked its high waterfall below the gorge of the glen; fern fronds drooped wet to the wet dead leaves beneath, matted grasses glistened powdered with dew.

In the still grey air of morning the smoke from the German officers' pipes and cigars rose upward in straight thin bands; a jeweled bracelet on the wrist of an infantry major reflected light like a frost crystal.

The officers ceased their careless conversation; one by one they became quiet, almost motionless where they had taken their several positions. Behind them, stiff and erect, the non–coms stood with the spare guns, rifles or fowling–pieces.

An air of silent expectancy settled over the carrefour; officer and non–com were waiting for something.

Michaud had already divined; Guild knew; so did Darrel. Every woodsman in The Pulpit knew. Some of them were trembling like leashed dogs.

Then in the forest a sound became audible like a far halloo. Distant answers came through the woodland silence, from north, from south—then from west and east.

Guild whispered to Darrel: "They are driving the forest! They have a regiment out to beat it!"

The German officers at their stands no longer moved as much as a finger. Against the grey trees they were all but invisible.

Suddenly out into the carrefour stepped a superb red stag, ears alert, beautiful head half turned at gaze. Instantly a rifle spoke; and the magnificent creature was down in the ride, scuffling, scrambling, only to fall and lie panting with its long neck lifted a little.

Crack! The antlered head fell.

Then out of the wood trotted three bewildered pigs—an old boar, a yearling on which the stripes were still visible, and a huge fierce sow. A ripple of rifle shots checked them; the old boar stood swinging his great furry head right and left; the yearling was down, twitching; the sow ran, screaming horribly. Two shots followed; the old boar kneeled down very quietly like a trick–horse in a circus, still facing his enemies. He did not look as though he were dead.