Who Goes There!. Robert W. Chambers
"I am satisfied that you will return if you say you will."
"Return to face my own execution?" repeated Guild, curiously. "You believe that of me?—of a man about whom you know nothing—a man who"—his animated features suddenly darkened and he caught his breath a moment, then—"a man who considers your nation a barbarous one, your rulers barbarians, your war inexcusable, your invasion of this land the vilest example of treachery and dishonour that the world has ever witnessed—you still believe that such a man might consider himself bound to return here if unsuccessful and face one of your murdering platoons? Do you?" he repeated, the slightest intonation of violence beginning to ring in the undertones of his voice.
Von Reiter's dry, blond features had become greyer and more set. His light blue eyes never left the other; behind their pale, steady scrutiny he seemed to be considering every word.
He drew in his breath, slowly; his very thin lips receded for a moment, then the fixed tranquillity returned.
"We Germans," he said drily, "care nothing for what Europe may think of us or say about us. Perhaps we are vandals, Goths, Huns—whatever you call them. Perhaps we are barbarians. I think we are! For we mean to scour the old world clean of its rottenness—cauterize it, cut out the old sores of a worn-out civilization, scrape its surface clean of the parasite nations. … And, if fire be necessary to burn out the last traces—" His light blue eyes glimmered a very reflection of the word—"then let fire pass. It has passed, before—God's Angel of the Flaming Sword has returned again to lead us! What is a cathedral or two—or pictures or foolish statues—or a million lives? Yes, if you choose, we are barbarians. And we intend to plow under the accumulated decay of the whole world, and burn up its rubbish and found our new world on virgin earth. Yes, we are barbarians. And our Emperor is a barbarian. And God, who creates with one hand and destroys with the other—God—autocrat of material creation, inexorable Over-Lord of ultimate material annihilation, is the greatest barbarian of all! Under His orders we are moving. In His name we annihilate! Amen!"
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.
CHAPTER III
TIPPERARY
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