Part 1 (2/2)
All around lay the beautiful Lorraine forests, dim and sweet, dusky as velvet in their leafy depths. A single sunbeam, striking obliquely through the brush tangle, powdered the forest mould with gold.
He heard the little river Lisse, flowing, flowing, where green branches swept its placid surface with a thousand new-born leaves; he heard a throstle singing in the summer wind.
Suddenly, far ahead, something gray shambled loosely across the path, leaped a brush heap, slunk under a fallen tree, and loped on again.
For a moment Marche refused to believe his own eyes. A wolf in Lorraine!--a big, gray timber-wolf, here, within a mile of the Chateau Morteyn! He could see it yet, pa.s.sing like a shadow along the trees. Before he knew it he was following, running noiselessly over the soft, mossy path, holding his little shot-gun tightly. As he ran, his eyes fixed on the spot where the wolf had disappeared, he began to doubt his senses again, he began to believe that the thing he saw was some s.h.a.ggy sheep-dog from the Moselle, astray in the Lorraine forests. But he held his pace, his pipe griped in his teeth, his gun swinging at his side. Presently, as he turned into a gra.s.s-grown carrefour, a mere waste of wild-flowers and tangled briers, he caught his ankle in a strand of ivy and fell headlong.
Sprawling there on the moss and dead leaves, the sound of human voices struck his ear, and he sat up, scowling and rubbing his knees.
The voices came nearer; two people were approaching the carrefour.
Jack Marche, angry and dirty, looked through the bushes, stanching a long scratch on his wrist with his pocket-handkerchief. The people were in sight now--a man, tall, square-shouldered, striding swiftly through the woods, followed by a young girl. Twice she sprang forward and seized him by the arm, but he shook her off roughly and hastened on. As they entered the carrefour, the girl ran in front of him and pushed him back with all her strength.
”Come, now,” said the man, recovering his balance, ”you had better stop this before I lose patience. Go back!”
The girl barred his way with slender arms out-stretched.
”What are you doing in my woods?” she demanded. ”Answer me! I will know, this time!”
”Let me pa.s.s!” sneered the man. He held a roll of papers in one hand; in the other, steel compa.s.ses that glittered in the sun.
”I shall not let you pa.s.s!” she said, desperately; ”you shall not pa.s.s! I wish to know what it means, why you and the others come into my woods and make maps of every path, of every brook, of every bridge--yes, of every wall and tree and rock! I have seen you before--you and the others. You are strangers in my country!”
”Get out of my path,” said the man, sullenly.
”Then give me that map you have made! I know what you are! You come from across the Rhine!”
The man scowled and stepped towards her.
”You are a German spy!” she cried, pa.s.sionately.
”You little fool!” he snarled, seizing her arm. He shook her brutally; the scarlet skirts fluttered, a little rent came in the velvet bodice, the heavy, s.h.i.+ning hair tumbled down over her eyes.
In a moment Marche had the man by the throat. He held him there, striking him again and again in the face. Twice the man tried to stab him with the steel compa.s.ses, but Marche dragged them out of his fist and hammered him until he choked and spluttered and collapsed on the ground, only to stagger to his feet again and lurch into the thicket of second growth. There he tripped and fell as Marche had fallen on the ivy, but, unlike Marche, he wriggled under the bushes and ran on, stooping low, never glancing back.
The impulse that comes to men to shoot when anything is running for safety came over Marche for an instant. Instinctively he raised his gun, hesitated, lowered it, still watching the running man with cold, bright eyes.
”Well,” he said, turning to the girl behind him, ”he's gone now.
Ought I to have fired? Ma foi! I'm sorry I didn't! He has torn your bodice and your skirt!”
The girl stood breathless, cheeks aflame, burnished tangled hair shadowing her eyes.
”We have the map,” she said, with a little gasp.
Marche picked up a crumpled roll of paper from the ground and opened it. It contained a rough topographical sketch of the surrounding country, a detail of a dozen small forest paths, a map of the whole course of the river Lisse from its source to its junction with the Moselle, and a beautiful plan of the Chateau de Nesville.
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