Роберт Чамберс: Who Goes There!

A dead silence ensued. And after it had lasted a little while the tall Prussian lifted his hand absently to his mustache and touched it caressingly.

"I am satisfied, whatever your opinion may be of me or of my people, that you will return if you say you will, successful or otherwise. I promise you immunity if you return with my daughter; I promise you a wall and a file of men if you return unsuccessful. But, in either event, I am satisfied that you will return. Will you go?"

"Yes," said Guild, thoughtfully. They stood for a moment longer, the young man gazing absently out of the window toward the menacing smoke pall which was increasing above Yslemont.

"You promise not to burn the remainder of the village?" he asked, turning to look at von Reiter.

"I promise not to burn it if you keep your promise."

"I'll try…. And the Burgomaster, notary, magistrate, and the others are to be released?"

"If you do what I ask."

"Very well. It's worth trying for. Give me my credentials."

"You need no written ones. Letters are unsafe. You will go to my daughter, who has leased a small cottage at Westheath. You will say to her that you come from me; that the question which she was to decide on the first of November must be decided sooner , and that when she arrives at Rehthal in Silesia she is to telegraph me through the General Staff of her arrival. If I can obtain leave to go to Silesia I shall do so. If not, I shall telegraph my instructions to her."

"Will that be sufficient for your daughter to place her confidence in a man absolutely strange to her and accompany that man on a journey of several days?" asked Guild, slightly astonished.

"Not quite sufficient," said von Reiter, his dry, blond visage slightly relaxing.

He drew a rather plain ring from his bony finger: "See if you can wear that," he said. "Does it fit you?"

Guild tried it on. "Well enough."

"Is there any danger of its slipping off?"

Guild tried it on another finger, which it fitted snugly.

"It looks like any other plain gold ring," he remarked.

"Her name is engraved inside."

"Karen?"

"Karen."

There came a short pause. Then: "Do you know London?" asked von Reiter.

"Passably."

"Oh! You are likely to require a touring car. You'll find it difficult to get. May I recommend the Edmeston Agency? It's about the only agency, now, where any gasoline at all is obtainable. The Edmeston Agency. I use it when I am in London. Ask for Mr. Louis Grätz."

After a moment he added, "My chauffeur brought your luggage, rücksack, stick, and so forth, from Yslemont. You will go to the enemies' lines south of Ostend in my car. One of my aides–de–camp will accompany you and show you a letter of instructions before delivering you to the enemies' flag of truce. You will read the letter, learn it by heart, and return it to my aide, Captain von Klipper.

"There is a bedroom above. Go up there. Food will be sent you. Get what sleep you can, because you are to leave at sunrise. Is this arrangement agreeable to you— Monsieur le Comte de Gueldres ?"

"Perfectly, General Baron von Reiter."

"Also. Then I have the honour to wish you good night and a pleasant sleep."

"I thank you and I have the honour to wish you the same," said Guild, bowing pleasantly.

General von Reiter stood aside and saluted with stiff courtesy as the young man passed out.

A few moments later a regimental band somewhere along the Yslemont highway began to play "Polen Blut."

If blood were the theme, they ought to have played it well enough.

At noon on the following day Kervyn Guild wrote to his friend Darrel:

DEAR HARRY:

Instead of joining you on the Black Erenz for the late August trout fishing I am obliged to go elsewhere.

I have had a most unpleasant experience, and it is not ended, and I do not yet know what the outcome is to be.

From the fact that I have not dated this letter it will be evident to you that I am not permitted to do so. Also you will understand that I have been caught somewhere in the war zone and that is why the name of the place from which I am writing you is omitted—by request.

We have halted for luncheon at a wayside inn—the gentleman who is kind enough to accompany me, and I—and I have obtained this benevolent gentleman's authorization to write you whatever I please as long as I do NOT

1st. Tell you where I am going.

2d. Tell you where I am.

3d. Tell you anything else that does not suit him.

And he isn't a censor at that; he is just a very efficient, polite, and rather good–looking German officer serving as aide on the staff of a certain German major–general.

Day before yesterday, after luncheon, I was playing a quiet game of chess with the Burgomaster of a certain Belgian village, and was taking a last look before setting out for Luxembourg on foot, rücksack, stick, and all, when—well, circumstances over which I had no control interrupted the game of chess. It was white to go and mate in three moves. The Burgomaster was playing black. I had him, Harry. Too bad, because he was the best player in—well in that neighbourhood. I opened with a Lopez and he replied most irregularly. It certainly was interesting. I am sorry that I couldn't mate him and analyze the game with him. However, thank Heaven, I did announce mate in three moves, and the old gentleman was still defiantly studying the situation. I admit he refused to resign.

I left that village toward evening in a large, grey automobile. I and the gentleman who still accompanies me slept fairly well that night, considering the fact that a town was on fire all around us.

In the morning we made slow progress in our automobile. Roads and fields were greenish grey with troops—a vast horde of them possessed the valleys; they enveloped the hills like fog–banks turning the whole world grey—infantry, artillery, cuirassiers, Uhlans, hussars—all mist colour from helmet to heel—and so are their waggons and guns and caissons and traction–engines and motor–cycles and armoured cars and aeroplanes.

The latter are magnificent in an artistic sense—perfect replicas of giant pigeon–hawks, circling, planing, sheering the air or sailing high, majestic as a very lammergeier, fierce, relentless, terrible.

My efficient companion who is reading this letter over my shoulder as I write it, and who has condescended to permit a ghost of a smile to mitigate, now and then, the youthful seriousness of his countenance, is not likely to object when I say to you that what I have seen of the German army on the march is astoundingly impressive.

(He smiles again very boyishly and says he doesn't object.)

Order, precision, a knowledge of the country absolutely unhesitating marks its progress. There is much singing in the infantry ranks. The men march well, their physique is fine, the cavalry are superbly mounted, the guns—(He shakes his head, so never mind the guns.)

Their regimental bands are wonderful. It is a sheer delight to listen to them. They play everything from "Polen Blut" and "Sari," to Sousa, "Tannhäuser," and "A Hot Time," but I haven't yet heard "Tipperary." (He seems puzzled at this, but does not object.) I expect shortly to hear a band playing it. (I have to explain to my efficient companion that "Tipperary" is a tune which ought to take Berlin and Vienna by storm when they hear it. It takes Berlin and Vienna to really appreciate good music. He agrees with me.)

Yesterday we passed a convoy of prisoners, some were kilted. I was not permitted to speak to them—but, Oh, those wistful eyes of Scottish blue! I guess they understood, for they got all the tobacco I had left. (My companion is doubtful about this, but finally shrugs his shoulders.)