Part 38 (1/2)

It was dark. He rode up to the guard and was challenged. He handed his permit, and when it was being examined he made a bolt into the more open country. For a few precious moments the Germans were surprised and Alan was away in the dark at top speed. The horse was a flyer and no mistake. His heart beat high with hope as he felt it bound under him. Shots were fired but fell short. Then he heard a noise behind him but it was too dark to see anything.

He rode straight ahead, judging this would take him out of the Germans'

country. For several hours he went on at a great pace. Occasionally his horse stumbled, but that gave him no anxiety, for he was used to all kinds of situations when riding.

When light began to steal over the landscape he took in the lay of the land. He was in the middle of a wide flat country; the ground was wet and marshy. He had no idea where he was but he seemed safe from pursuit. Not a soul was to be seen. He slowed the horse down to a walk, it was time the animal had a rest.

Where was he?

He went slowly on; then he saw in the distance what looked like a white farm-house. It was a dwelling of some kind and he made for it. As he came within hail an old man stepped out, a Belgian peasant, so Alan judged him by his appearance. He spoke to him in French. The old man regarded him curiously. As Alan looked at him he thought:

”He's a better man than I imagined. Perhaps he's disguised.”

In answer to Alan's question he said in excellent French:

”Who are you? You don't look like a civilian.”

Alan determined to be straight with him; it would probably be best.

”I am a soldier. I wish to find the English lines.”

”Ah!” exclaimed the man. ”Get down, come inside. Where are you from?”

”Bruges.”

The man held up his hands, tears came into his eyes. He lamented the fall of the city, its occupation by the Germans. He had a daughter in Bruges when the enemy entered the city. He wrung his hands; his grief was painful. He said no more, but Alan guessed and grasped his hands in sympathy--and hate.

Alan put the horse in the tumble-down stable, the roof was half off, the rafters hanging down, the walls crumbling--an old place. It had been in the family of Jean Baptistine for many years. He was a lone man, no wife, three sons fighting, and his daughter--ah well, she was where no harm could come to her. She had saved her honor and sacrificed her life. He was glad of that, very glad, honor was more than life.

He gave Alan food, coa.r.s.e but clean, which he enjoyed, for he was hungry.

Jean talked freely. He supposed he and his farmhouse were left alone because they were out of the fire zone, or perhaps the barbarians did not think it worth while to meddle with him. There was no wine in the house. He procured a little brandy which he gave to Alan and sipped a small quant.i.ty himself.

Alan learned that he was in the enemies' country, that it would be difficult for him to get to the Allied lines. He might be taken at any moment and shot on the spot. He had left his permit in the hands of the guard when he galloped away.

Jean Baptistine said there was no immediate danger. Soldiers did not often come his way. His guest had better lie concealed for a few days.

He would be glad of his company, something might happen, the Boches might be driven back defeated.

Alan being tired went upstairs to lie down. The bed was clean, the room smelt fresh. Jean told him to rest comfortably. He threw himself on the bed; before Jean left the room he was asleep.

The sun streaming through the small windows woke him. He sat up, wondering at first where he was.

On the old-fas.h.i.+oned table he saw a pair of gloves and a cigar-case.

How came they there?

He got off the bed, took the cigar-case in his hands, and stared in amazement. The monogram V.N. was engraved on it, he recognized it, he had given it to Vincent Newport when he resigned his commission; and Captain Newport was posted among the missing. How came the case here, and the glove?

He was examining them when Jean came up the crazy stairs into the room.