"'GREENMANTLE\n\n\nby\n\nJOHN BUCHAN\n\n\n\n\nTo\n\nCaroline Grosvenor\n\n\n\n\nDuring the past year, in the intervals of an active life, I have amused\nmyself with constructing this tale. It has been scribbled in every\nkind of odd place and moment--in England and abroad, during long\njourneys, in half-hours between graver tasks; and it bears, I fear, the\nmark of its gipsy begetting. But it has amused me to write, and I\nshall be well repaid if it amuses you--and a few others--to read.\n\nLet no man or woman call its events improbable. The war has driven\nthat word from our vocabulary, and melodrama has become the prosiest\nrealism. Things unimagined before happen daily to our friends by sea\nand land. The one chance in a thousand is habitually taken, and as\noften as not succeeds. Coincidence, like some new Briareus, stretches\na hundred long arms hourly across the earth. Some day, when the full\nhistory is written--sober history with ample documents--the poor\nromancer will give up business and fall to reading Miss Austen in a\nhermitage.\n\nThe characters of the tale, if you think hard, you will recall. Sandy\nyou know well. That great spirit was last heard of at Basra, where he\noccupies the post that once was Harry Bullivant\'s. Richard Hannay is\nwhere he longed to be, commanding his battalion on the ugliest bit of\nfront in the West. Mr John S. Blenkiron, full of honour and wholly\ncured of dyspepsia, has returned to the States, after vainly\nendeavouring to take Peter with him. As for Peter, he has attained the\nheight of his ambition. He has shaved his beard and joined the Flying\nCorps.\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n 1. A Mission is Proposed\n 2. The Gathering of the Missionaries\n 3. Peter Pienaar\n 4. Adventures of Two Dutchmen on the Loose\n 5. Further Adventures of the Same\n 6. The Indiscretions of the Same\n 7. Christmas Eve\n 8. The Essen Barges\n 9. The Return of the Straggler\n 10. The Garden-House of Suliman the Red\n 11. The Companions of the Rosy Hours\n 12. Four Missionaries See Light in Their Mission\n 13. I Move in Good Society\n 14. The Lady of the Mantilla\n 15. An Embarrassed Toilet\n 16. The Battered Caravanserai\n 17. Trouble By the Waters of Babylon\n 18. Sparrows on the Housetops\n 19. Greenmantle\n 20. Peter Pienaar Goes to the Wars\n 21. The Little Hill\n 22. The Guns of the North\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nA Mission is Proposed\n\nI had just finished breakfast and was filling my pipe when I got\nBullivant\'s telegram. It was at Furling, the big country house in\nHampshire where I had come to convalesce after Loos, and Sandy, who was\nin the same case, was hunting for the marmalade. I flung him the\nflimsy with the blue strip pasted down on it, and he whistled.\n\n\'Hullo, Dick, you\'ve got the battalion. Or maybe it\'s a staff billet.\nYou\'ll be a blighted brass-hat, coming it heavy over the hard-working\nregimental officer. And to think of the language you\'ve wasted on\nbrass-hats in your time!\'\n\nI sat and thought for a bit, for the name \'Bullivant\' carried me back\neighteen months to the hot summer before the war. I had not seen the\nman since, though I had read about him in the papers. For more than a\nyear I had been a busy battalion officer, with no other thought than to\nhammer a lot of raw stuff into good soldiers. I had succeeded pretty\nwell, and there was no prouder man on earth than Richard Hannay when he\ntook his Lennox Highlanders over the parapets on that glorious and\nbloody 25th day of September. Loos was no picnic, and we had had some\nugly bits of scrapping before that, but the worst bit of the campaign I\nhad seen was a tea-party to the show I had been in with Bullivant\nbefore the war started. [Major Hannay\'s narrative of this affair has\nbeen published under the title of _The Thirty-nine Steps_.]\n\nThe sight of his name on a telegram form seemed to change all my\noutlook on life. I had been hoping for the command of the battalion,\nand looking forward to being in at the finish with Brother Boche. But\nthis message jerked my thoughts on to a new road. There might be other\nthings in the war than straightforward fighting. Why on earth should\nthe Foreign Office want to see an obscure Major of the New Army, and\nwant to see him in double-quick time?\n\n\'I\'m going up to town by the ten train,\' I announced; \'I\'ll be back in\ntime for dinner.\'\n\n\'Try my tailor,\' said Sandy. \'He\'s got a very nice taste in red tabs.\nYou can use my name.\'\n\nAn idea struck me. \'You\'re pretty well all right now. If I wire for\nyou, will you pack your own kit and mine and join me?\'\n\n\'Right-o! I\'ll accept a job on your staff if they give you a corps. If\nso be as you come down tonight, be a good chap and bring a barrel of\noysters from Sweeting\'s.\'\n\nI travelled up to London in a regular November drizzle, which cleared\nup about Wimbledon to watery sunshine. I never could stand London\nduring the war. It seemed to have lost its bearings and broken out\ninto all manner of badges and uniforms which did not fit in with my\nnotion of it. One felt the war more in its streets than in the field,\nor rather one felt the confusion of war without feeling the purpose. I\ndare say it was all right; but since August 1914 I never spent a day in\ntown without coming home depressed to my boots.\n\nI took a taxi and drove straight to the Foreign Office. Sir Walter did\nnot keep me waiting long. But when his secretary took me to his room I\nwould not have recognized the man I had known eighteen months before.\n\nHis big frame seemed to have dropped flesh and there was a stoop in the\nsquare shoulders. His face had lost its rosiness and was red in\npatches, like that of a man who gets too little fresh air. His hair\nwas much greyer and very thin about the temples, and there were lines\nof overwork below the eyes. But the eyes were the same as before, keen\nand kindly and shrewd, and there was no change in the firm set of the\njaw.\n\n\'We must on no account be disturbed for the next hour,\' he told his\nsecretary. When the young man had gone he went across to both doors\nand turned the keys in them.\n\n\'Well, Major Hannay,\' he said, flinging himself into a chair beside the\nfire. \'How do you like soldiering?\'\n\n\'Right enough,\' I said, \'though this isn\'t just the kind of war I would\nhave picked myself. It\'s a comfortless, bloody business. But we\'ve\ngot the measure of the old Boche now, and it\'s dogged as does it. I\ncount on getting back to the front in a week or two.\'\n\n\'Will you get the battalion?\' he asked. He seemed to have followed my\ndoings pretty closely.\n\n\'I believe I\'ve a good chance. I\'m not in this show for honour and\nglory, though. I want to do the best I can, but I wish to heaven it\nwas over. All I think of is coming out of it with a whole skin.\'\n\nHe laughed. \'You do yourself an injustice. What about the forward\nobservation post at the Lone Tree? You forgot about the whole skin\nthen.\'\n\nI felt myself getting red. \'That was all rot,\' I said, \'and I can\'t\nthink who told you about it. I hated the job, but I had to do it to\nprevent my subalterns going to glory. They were a lot of fire-eating\nyoung lunatics. If I had sent one of them he\'d have gone on his knees\nto Providence and asked for trouble.\'\n\nSir Walter was still grinning.\n\n\'I\'m not questioning your caution. You have the rudiments of it, or\nour friends of the Black Stone would have gathered you in at our last\nmerry meeting. I would question it as little as your courage. What\nexercises my mind is whether it is best employed in the trenches.\'\n\n\'Is the War Office dissatisfied with me?\' I asked sharply.\n\n\'They are profoundly satisfied. They propose to give you command of\nyour battalion. Presently, if you escape a stray bullet, you will no\ndoubt be a Brigadier. It is a wonderful war for youth and brains. But\n... I take it you are in this business to serve your country, Hannay?\'\n\n\'I reckon I am,\' I said. \'I am certainly not in it for my health.\'\n\nHe looked at my leg, where the doctors had dug out the shrapnel\nfragments, and smiled quizzically.\n\n\'Pretty fit again?\' he asked.\n\n\'Tough as a sjambok. I thrive on the racket and eat and sleep like a\nschoolboy.\'\n\nHe got up and stood with his back to the fire, his eyes staring\nabstractedly out of the window at the wintry park.\n\n\'It is a great game, and you are the man for it, no doubt. But there\nare others who can play it, for soldiering today asks for the average\nrather than the exception in human nature. It is like a big machine\nwhere the parts are standardized. You are fighting, not because you\nare short of a job, but because you want to help England. How if you\ncould help her better than by commanding a battalion--or a brigade--or,\nif it comes to that, a division? How if there is a thing which you\nalone can do? Not some _embusque_ business in an office, but a thing\ncompared to which your fight at Loos was a Sunday-school picnic. You\nare not afraid of danger? Well, in this job you would not be fighting\nwith an army around you, but alone. You are fond of tackling\ndifficulties? Well, I can give you a task which will try all your\npowers. Have you anything to say?\'\n\nMy heart was beginning to thump uncomfortably. Sir Walter was not the\nman to pitch a case too high.\n\n\'I am a soldier,\' I said, \'and under orders.\'\n\n\'True; but what I am about to propose does not come by any conceivable\nstretch within the scope of a soldier\'s duties. I shall perfectly\nunderstand if you decline. You will be acting as I should act\nmyself--as any sane man would. I would not press you for worlds. If\nyou wish it, I will not even make the proposal, but let you go here and\nnow, and wish you good luck with your battalion. I do not wish to\nperplex a good soldier with impossible decisions.\'\n\nThis piqued me and put me on my mettle.\n\n\'I am not going to run away before the guns fire. Let me hear what you\npropose.\'\n\nSir Walter crossed to a cabinet, unlocked it with a key from his chain,\nand took a piece of paper from a drawer. It looked like an ordinary\nhalf-sheet of note-paper.\n\n\'I take it,\' he said, \'that your travels have not extended to the East.\'\n\n\'No,\' I said, \'barring a shooting trip in East Africa.\'\n\n\'Have you by any chance been following the present campaign there?\'\n\n\'I\'ve read the newspapers pretty regularly since I went to hospital.\nI\'ve got some pals in the Mesopotamia show, and of course I\'m keen to\nknow what is going to happen at Gallipoli and Salonika. I gather that\nEgypt is pretty safe.\'\n\n\'If you will give me your attention for ten minutes I will supplement\nyour newspaper reading.\'\n\nSir Walter lay back in an arm-chair and spoke to the ceiling. It was\nthe best story, the clearest and the fullest, I had ever got of any bit\nof the war. He told me just how and why and when Turkey had left the\nrails. I heard about her grievances over our seizure of her ironclads,\nof the mischief the coming of the _Goeben_ had wrought, of Enver and\nhis precious Committee and the way they had got a cinch on the old\nTurk. When he had spoken for a bit, he began to question me.\n\n\'You are an intelligent fellow, and you will ask how a Polish\nadventurer, meaning Enver, and a collection of Jews and gipsies should\nhave got control of a proud race. The ordinary man will tell you that\nit was German organization backed up with German money and German arms.\nYou will inquire again how, since Turkey is primarily a religious\npower, Islam has played so small a part in it all. The Sheikh-ul-Islam\nis neglected, and though the Kaiser proclaims a Holy War and calls\nhimself Hadji Mohammed Guilliamo, and says the Hohenzollerns are\ndescended from the Prophet, that seems to have fallen pretty flat. The\nordinary man again will answer that Islam in Turkey is becoming a back\nnumber, and that Krupp guns are the new gods. Yet--I don\'t know. I do\nnot quite believe in Islam becoming a back number.\'\n\n\'Look at it in another way,\' he went on. \'If it were Enver and Germany\nalone dragging Turkey into a European war for purposes that no Turk\ncared a rush about, we might expect to find the regular army obedient,\nand Constantinople. But in the provinces, where Islam is strong, there\nwould be trouble. Many of us counted on that. But we have been\ndisappointed. The Syrian army is as fanatical as the hordes of the\nMahdi. The Senussi have taken a hand in the game. The Persian Moslems\nare threatening trouble. There is a dry wind blowing through the East,\nand the parched grasses wait the spark. And that wind is blowing\ntowards the Indian border. Whence comes that wind, think you?\'\n\nSir Walter had lowered his voice and was speaking very slow and\ndistinct. I could hear the rain dripping from the eaves of the window,\nand far off the hoot of taxis in Whitehall.\n\n\'Have you an explanation, Hannay?\' he asked again.\n\n\'It looks as if Islam had a bigger hand in the thing than we thought,\'\nI said. \'I fancy religion is the only thing to knit up such a\nscattered empire.\'\n\n\'You are right,\' he said. \'You must be right. We have laughed at the\nHoly War, the jehad that old Von der Goltz prophesied. But I believe\nthat stupid old man with the big spectacles was right. There is a\njehad preparing. The question is, How?\'\n\n\'I\'m hanged if I know,\' I said; \'but I\'ll bet it won\'t be done by a\npack of stout German officers in _pickelhaubes_. I fancy you can\'t\nmanufacture Holy Wars out of Krupp guns alone and a few staff officers\nand a battle cruiser with her boilers burst.\'\n\n\'Agreed. They are not fools, however much we try to persuade ourselves\nof the contrary. But supposing they had got some tremendous sacred\nsanction--some holy thing, some book or gospel or some new prophet from\nthe desert, something which would cast over the whole ugly mechanism of\nGerman war the glamour of the old torrential raids which crumpled the\nByzantine Empire and shook the walls of Vienna? Islam is a fighting\ncreed, and the mullah still stands in the pulpit with the Koran in one\nhand and a drawn sword in the other. Supposing there is some Ark of\nthe Covenant which will madden the remotest Moslem peasant with dreams\nof Paradise? What then, my friend?\'\n\n\'Then there will be hell let loose in those parts pretty soon.\'\n\n\'Hell which may spread. Beyond Persia, remember, lies India.\'\n\n\'You keep to suppositions. How much do you know?\' I asked.\n\n\'Very little, except the fact. But the fact is beyond dispute. I have\nreports from agents everywhere--pedlars in South Russia, Afghan\nhorse-dealers, Turcoman merchants, pilgrims on the road to Mecca,\nsheikhs in North Africa, sailors on the Black Sea coasters,\nsheep-skinned Mongols, Hindu fakirs, Greek traders in the Gulf, as well\nas respectable Consuls who use cyphers. They tell the same story. The\nEast is waiting for a revelation. It has been promised one. Some\nstar--man, prophecy, or trinket--is coming out of the West. The Germans\nknow, and that is the card with which they are going to astonish the\nworld.\'\n\n\'And the mission you spoke of for me is to go and find out?\'\n\nHe nodded gravely. \'That is the crazy and impossible mission.\'\n\n\'Tell me one thing, Sir Walter,\' I said. \'I know it is the fashion in\nthis country if a man has a special knowledge to set him to some job\nexactly the opposite. I know all about Damaraland, but instead of\nbeing put on Botha\'s staff, as I applied to be, I was kept in Hampshire\nmud till the campaign in German South West Africa was over. I know a\nman who could pass as an Arab, but do you think they would send him to\nthe East? They left him in my battalion--a lucky thing for me, for he\nsaved my life at Loos. I know the fashion, but isn\'t this just\ncarrying it a bit too far? There must be thousands of men who have\nspent years in the East and talk any language. They\'re the fellows for\nthis job. I never saw a Turk in my life except a chap who did\nwrestling turns in a show at Kimberley. You\'ve picked about the most\nuseless man on earth.\'\n\n\'You\'ve been a mining engineer, Hannay,\' Sir Walter said. \'If you\nwanted a man to prospect for gold in Barotseland you would of course\nlike to get one who knew the country and the people and the language.\nBut the first thing you would require in him would be that he had a\nnose for finding gold and knew his business. That is the position now.\nI believe that you have a nose for finding out what our enemies try to\nhide. I know that you are brave and cool and resourceful. That is why\nI tell you the story. Besides ...\'\n\nHe unrolled a big map of Europe on the wall.\n\n\'I can\'t tell you where you\'ll get on the track of the secret, but I\ncan put a limit to the quest. You won\'t find it east of the\nBosporus--not yet. It is still in Europe. It may be in\nConstantinople, or in Thrace. It may be farther west. But it is\nmoving eastwards. If you are in time you may cut into its march to\nConstantinople. That much I can tell you. The secret is known in\nGermany, too, to those whom it concerns. It is in Europe that the\nseeker must search--at present.\'\n\n\'Tell me more,\' I said. \'You can give me no details and no\ninstructions. Obviously you can give me no help if I come to grief.\'\n\nHe nodded. \'You would be beyond the pale.\'\n\n\'You give me a free hand.\'\n\n\'Absolutely. You can have what money you like, and you can get what\nhelp you like. You can follow any plan you fancy, and go anywhere you\nthink fruitful. We can give no directions.\'\n\n\'One last question. You say it is important. Tell me just how\nimportant.\'\n\n\'It is life and death,\' he said solemnly. \'I can put it no higher and\nno lower. Once we know what is the menace we can meet it. As long as\nwe are in the dark it works unchecked and we may be too late. The war\nmust be won or lost in Europe. Yes; but if the East blazes up, our\neffort will be distracted from Europe and the great _coup_ may fail.\nThe stakes are no less than victory and defeat, Hannay.\'\n\nI got out of my chair and walked to the window. It was a difficult\nmoment in my life. I was happy in my soldiering; above all, happy in\nthe company of my brother officers. I was asked to go off into the\nenemy\'s lands on a quest for which I believed I was manifestly\nunfitted--a business of lonely days and nights, of nerve-racking\nstrain, of deadly peril shrouding me like a garment. Looking out on\nthe bleak weather I shivered. It was too grim a business, too inhuman\nfor flesh and blood. But Sir Walter had called it a matter of life and\ndeath, and I had told him that I was out to serve my country. He could\nnot give me orders, but was I not under orders--higher orders than my\nBrigadier\'s? I thought myself incompetent, but cleverer men than me\nthought me competent, or at least competent enough for a sporting\nchance. I knew in my soul that if I declined I should never be quite\nat peace in the world again. And yet Sir Walter had called the scheme\nmadness, and said that he himself would never have accepted.\n\nHow does one make a great decision? I swear that when I turned round\nto speak I meant to refuse. But my answer was Yes, and I had crossed\nthe Rubicon. My voice sounded cracked and far away.\n\nSir Walter shook hands with me and his eyes blinked a little.\n\n\'I may be sending you to your death, Hannay--Good God, what a damned\ntask-mistress duty is!--If so, I shall be haunted with regrets, but you\nwill never repent. Have no fear of that. You have chosen the roughest\nroad, but it goes straight to the hill-tops.\'\n\nHe handed me the half-sheet of note-paper. On it were written three\nwords--\'_Kasredin_\', \'_cancer_\', and \'_v. I._\'\n\n\'That is the only clue we possess,\' he said. \'I cannot construe it,\nbut I can tell you the story. We have had our agents working in Persia\nand Mesopotamia for years--mostly young officers of the Indian Army.\nThey carry their lives in their hands, and now and then one disappears,\nand the sewers of Baghdad might tell a tale. But they find out many\nthings, and they count the game worth the candle. They have told us of\nthe star rising in the West, but they could give us no details. All\nbut one--the best of them. He had been working between Mosul and the\nPersian frontier as a muleteer, and had been south into the Bakhtiari\nhills. He found out something, but his enemies knew that he knew and\nhe was pursued. Three months ago, just before Kut, he staggered into\nDelamain\'s camp with ten bullet holes in him and a knife slash on his\nforehead. He mumbled his name, but beyond that and the fact that there\nwas a Something coming from the West he told them nothing. He died in\nten minutes. They found this paper on him, and since he cried out the\nword \"Kasredin\" in his last moments, it must have had something to do\nwith his quest. It is for you to find out if it has any meaning.\'\n\nI folded it up and placed it in my pocket-book.\n\n\'What a great fellow! What was his name?\' I asked.\n\nSir Walter did not answer at once. He was looking out of the window.\n\'His name,\' he said at last, \'was Harry Bullivant. He was my son. God\nrest his brave soul!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nThe Gathering of the Missionaries\n\nI wrote out a wire to Sandy, asking him to come up by the two-fifteen\ntrain and meet me at my flat.\n\n\'I have chosen my colleague,\' I said.\n\n\'Billy Arbuthnot\'s boy? His father was at Harrow with me. I know the\nfellow--Harry used to bring him down to fish--tallish, with a lean,\nhigh-boned face and a pair of brown eyes like a pretty girl\'s. I know\nhis record, too. There\'s a good deal about him in this office. He\nrode through Yemen, which no white man ever did before. The Arabs let\nhim pass, for they thought him stark mad and argued that the hand of\nAllah was heavy enough on him without their efforts. He\'s\nblood-brother to every kind of Albanian bandit. Also he used to take a\nhand in Turkish politics, and got a huge reputation. Some Englishman\nwas once complaining to old Mahmoud Shevkat about the scarcity of\nstatesmen in Western Europe, and Mahmoud broke in with, \"Have you not\nthe Honourable Arbuthnot?\" You say he\'s in your battalion. I was\nwondering what had become of him, for we tried to get hold of him here,\nbut he had left no address. Ludovick Arbuthnot--yes, that\'s the man.\nBuried deep in the commissioned ranks of the New Army? Well, we\'ll get\nhim out pretty quick!\'\n\n\'I knew he had knocked about the East, but I didn\'t know he was that\nkind of swell. Sandy\'s not the chap to buck about himself.\'\n\n\'He wouldn\'t,\' said Sir Walter. \'He had always a more than Oriental\nreticence. I\'ve got another colleague for you, if you like him.\'\n\nHe looked at his watch. \'You can get to the Savoy Grill Room in five\nminutes in a taxi-cab. Go in from the Strand, turn to your left, and\nyou will see in the alcove on the right-hand side a table with one\nlarge American gentleman sitting at it. They know him there, so he\nwill have the table to himself. I want you to go and sit down beside\nhim. Say you come from me. His name is Mr John Scantlebury Blenkiron,\nnow a citizen of Boston, Mass., but born and raised in Indiana. Put\nthis envelope in your pocket, but don\'t read its contents till you have\ntalked to him. I want you to form your own opinion about Mr Blenkiron.\'\n\nI went out of the Foreign Office in as muddled a frame of mind as any\ndiplomatist who ever left its portals. I was most desperately\ndepressed. To begin with, I was in a complete funk. I had always\nthought I was about as brave as the average man, but there\'s courage\nand courage, and mine was certainly not the impassive kind. Stick me\ndown in a trench and I could stand being shot at as well as most\npeople, and my blood could get hot if it were given a chance. But I\nthink I had too much imagination. I couldn\'t shake off the beastly\nforecasts that kept crowding my mind.\n\nIn about a fortnight, I calculated, I would be dead. Shot as a spy--a\nrotten sort of ending! At the moment I was quite safe, looking for a\ntaxi in the middle of Whitehall, but the sweat broke on my forehead. I\nfelt as I had felt in my adventure before the war. But this was far\nworse, for it was more cold-blooded and premeditated, and I didn\'t seem\nto have even a sporting chance. I watched the figures in khaki passing\non the pavement, and thought what a nice safe prospect they had\ncompared to mine. Yes, even if next week they were in the\nHohenzollern, or the Hairpin trench at the Quarries, or that ugly angle\nat Hooge. I wondered why I had not been happier that morning before I\ngot that infernal wire. Suddenly all the trivialities of English life\nseemed to me inexpressibly dear and terribly far away. I was very\nangry with Bullivant, till I remembered how fair he had been. My fate\nwas my own choosing.\n\nWhen I was hunting the Black Stone the interest of the problem had\nhelped to keep me going. But now I could see no problem. My mind had\nnothing to work on but three words of gibberish on a sheet of paper and\na mystery of which Sir Walter had been convinced, but to which he\ncouldn\'t give a name. It was like the story I had read of Saint Teresa\nsetting off at the age of ten with her small brother to convert the\nMoors. I sat huddled in the taxi with my chin on my breast, wishing\nthat I had lost a leg at Loos and been comfortably tucked away for the\nrest of the war.\n\nSure enough I found my man in the Grill Room. There he was, feeding\nsolemnly, with a napkin tucked under his chin. He was a big fellow\nwith a fat, sallow, clean-shaven face. I disregarded the hovering\nwaiter and pulled up a chair beside the American at the little table.\nHe turned on me a pair of full sleepy eyes, like a ruminating ox.\n\n\'Mr Blenkiron?\' I asked.\n\n\'You have my name, Sir,\' he said. \'Mr John Scantlebury Blenkiron. I\nwould wish you good morning if I saw anything good in this darned\nBritish weather.\'\n\n\'I come from Sir Walter Bullivant,\' I said, speaking low.\n\n\'So?\' said he. \'Sir Walter is a very good friend of mine. Pleased to\nmeet you, Mr--or I guess it\'s Colonel--\'\n\n\'Hannay,\' I said; \'Major Hannay.\' I was wondering what this sleepy\nYankee could do to help me.\n\n\'Allow me to offer you luncheon, Major. Here, waiter, bring the carte.\nI regret that I cannot join you in sampling the efforts of the\nmanagement of this hotel. I suffer, Sir, from dyspepsia--duodenal\ndyspepsia. It gets me two hours after a meal and gives me hell just\nbelow the breast-bone. So I am obliged to adopt a diet. My\nnourishment is fish, Sir, and boiled milk and a little dry toast. It\'s\na melancholy descent from the days when I could do justice to a lunch\nat Sherry\'s and sup off oyster-crabs and devilled bones.\' He sighed\nfrom the depths of his capacious frame.\n\nI ordered an omelette and a chop, and took another look at him. The\nlarge eyes seemed to be gazing steadily at me without seeing me. They\nwere as vacant as an abstracted child\'s; but I had an uncomfortable\nfeeling that they saw more than mine.\n\n\'You have been fighting, Major? The Battle of Loos? Well, I guess\nthat must have been some battle. We in America respect the fighting of\nthe British soldier, but we don\'t quite catch on to the de-vices of the\nBritish Generals. We opine that there is more bellicosity than science\namong your highbrows. That is so? My father fought at Chattanooga,\nbut these eyes have seen nothing gorier than a Presidential election.\nSay, is there any way I could be let into a scene of real bloodshed?\'\n\nHis serious tone made me laugh. \'There are plenty of your countrymen\nin the present show,\' I said. \'The French Foreign Legion is full of\nyoung Americans, and so is our Army Service Corps. Half the chauffeurs\nyou strike in France seem to come from the States.\'\n\nHe sighed. \'I did think of some belligerent stunt a year back. But I\nreflected that the good God had not given John S. Blenkiron the kind\nof martial figure that would do credit to the tented field. Also I\nrecollected that we Americans were nootrals--benevolent nootrals--and\nthat it did not become me to be butting into the struggles of the\neffete monarchies of Europe. So I stopped at home. It was a big\nrenunciation, Major, for I was lying sick during the Philippines\nbusiness, and I have never seen the lawless passions of men let loose\non a battlefield. And, as a stoodent of humanity, I hankered for the\nexperience.\'\n\n\'What have you been doing?\' I asked. The calm gentleman had begun to\ninterest me.\n\n\'Waal,\' he said, \'I just waited. The Lord has blessed me with money to\nburn, so I didn\'t need to go scrambling like a wild cat for war\ncontracts. But I reckoned I would get let into the game somehow, and I\nwas. Being a nootral, I was in an advantageous position to take a\nhand. I had a pretty hectic time for a while, and then I reckoned I\nwould leave God\'s country and see what was doing in Europe. I have\ncounted myself out of the bloodshed business, but, as your poet sings,\npeace has its victories not less renowned than war, and I reckon that\nmeans that a nootral can have a share in a scrap as well as a\nbelligerent.\'\n\n\'That\'s the best kind of neutrality I\'ve ever heard of,\' I said.\n\n\'It\'s the right kind,\' he replied solemnly. \'Say, Major, what are your\nlot fighting for? For your own skins and your Empire and the peace of\nEurope. Waal, those ideals don\'t concern us one cent. We\'re not\nEuropeans, and there aren\'t any German trenches on Long Island yet.\nYou\'ve made the ring in Europe, and if we came butting in it wouldn\'t\nbe the rules of the game. You wouldn\'t welcome us, and I guess you\'d\nbe right. We\'re that delicate-minded we can\'t interfere and that was\nwhat my friend, President Wilson, meant when he opined that America was\ntoo proud to fight. So we\'re nootrals. But likewise we\'re benevolent\nnootrals. As I follow events, there\'s a skunk been let loose in the\nworld, and the odour of it is going to make life none too sweet till it\nis cleared away. It wasn\'t us that stirred up that skunk, but we\'ve\ngot to take a hand in disinfecting the planet. See? We can\'t fight,\nbut, by God! some of us are going to sweat blood to sweep the mess up.\nOfficially we do nothing except give off Notes like a leaky boiler\ngives off steam. But as individooal citizens we\'re in it up to the\nneck. So, in the spirit of Jefferson Davis and Woodrow Wilson, I\'m\ngoing to be the nootralist kind of nootral till Kaiser will be sorry he\ndidn\'t declare war on America at the beginning.\'\n\nI was completely recovering my temper. This fellow was a perfect\njewel, and his spirit put purpose into me.\n\n\'I guess you British were the same kind of nootral when your Admiral\nwarned off the German fleet from interfering with Dewey in Manila Bay\nin \'98.\' Mr Blenkiron drank up the last drop of his boiled milk and\nlit a thin black cigar.\n\nI leaned forward. \'Have you talked to Sir Walter?\' I asked.\n\n\'I have talked to him, and he has given me to understand that there\'s a\ndeal ahead which you\'re going to boss. There are no flies on that big\nman, and if he says it\'s good business then you can count me in.\'\n\n\'You know that it\'s uncommonly dangerous?\'\n\n\'I judged so. But it don\'t do to begin counting risks. I believe in\nan all-wise and beneficent Providence, but you have got to trust Him\nand give Him a chance. What\'s life anyhow? For me, it\'s living on a\nstrict diet and having frequent pains in my stomach. It isn\'t such an\nalmighty lot to give up, provided you get a good price in the deal.\nBesides, how big is the risk? About one o\'clock in the morning, when\nyou can\'t sleep, it will be the size of Mount Everest, but if you run\nout to meet it, it will be a hillock you can jump over. The grizzly\nlooks very fierce when you\'re taking your ticket for the Rockies and\nwondering if you\'ll come back, but he\'s just an ordinary bear when\nyou\'ve got the sight of your rifle on him. I won\'t think about risks\ntill I\'m up to my neck in them and don\'t see the road out.\'\n\nI scribbled my address on a piece of paper and handed it to the stout\nphilosopher. \'Come to dinner tonight at eight,\' I said.\n\n\'I thank you, Major. A little fish, please, plain-boiled, and some hot\nmilk. You will forgive me if I borrow your couch after the meal and\nspend the evening on my back. That is the advice of my noo doctor.\'\n\nI got a taxi and drove to my club. On the way I opened the envelope\nSir Walter had given me. It contained a number of jottings, the\ndossier of Mr Blenkiron. He had done wonders for the Allies in the\nStates. He had nosed out the Dumba plot, and had been instrumental in\ngetting the portfolio of Dr Albert. Von Papen\'s spies had tried to\nmurder him, after he had defeated an attempt to blow up one of the big\ngun factories. Sir Walter had written at the end: \'The best man we\never had. Better than Scudder. He would go through hell with a box of\nbismuth tablets and a pack of Patience cards.\'\n\nI went into the little back smoking-room, borrowed an atlas from the\nlibrary, poked up the fire, and sat down to think. Mr Blenkiron had\ngiven me the fillip I needed. My mind was beginning to work now, and\nwas running wide over the whole business. Not that I hoped to find\nanything by my cogitations. It wasn\'t thinking in an arm-chair that\nwould solve the mystery. But I was getting a sort of grip on a plan of\noperations. And to my relief I had stopped thinking about the risks.\nBlenkiron had shamed me out of that. If a sedentary dyspeptic could\nshow that kind of nerve, I wasn\'t going to be behind him.\n\nI went back to my flat about five o\'clock. My man Paddock had gone to\nthe wars long ago, so I had shifted to one of the new blocks in Park\nLane where they provide food and service. I kept the place on to have\na home to go to when I got leave. It\'s a miserable business holidaying\nin an hotel.\n\nSandy was devouring tea-cakes with the serious resolution of a\nconvalescent.\n\n\'Well, Dick, what\'s the news? Is it a brass hat or the boot?\'\n\n\'Neither,\' I said. \'But you and I are going to disappear from His\nMajesty\'s forces. Seconded for special service.\'\n\n\'O my sainted aunt!\' said Sandy. \'What is it? For Heaven\'s sake put\nme out of pain. Have we to tout deputations of suspicious neutrals\nover munition works or take the shivering journalist in a motor-car\nwhere he can imagine he sees a Boche?\'\n\n\'The news will keep. But I can tell you this much. It\'s about as safe\nand easy as to go through the German lines with a walking-stick.\'\n\n\'Come, that\'s not so dusty,\' said Sandy, and began cheerfully on the\nmuffins.\n\nI must spare a moment to introduce Sandy to the reader, for he cannot\nbe allowed to slip into this tale by a side-door. If you will consult\nthe Peerage you will find that to Edward Cospatrick, fifteenth Baron\nClanroyden, there was born in the year 1882, as his second son,\nLudovick Gustavus Arbuthnot, commonly called the Honourable, etc. The\nsaid son was educated at Eton and New College, Oxford, was a captain in\nthe Tweeddale Yeomanry, and served for some years as honorary attache\nat various embassies. The Peerage will stop short at this point, but\nthat is by no means the end of the story. For the rest you must\nconsult very different authorities. Lean brown men from the ends of\nthe earth may be seen on the London pavements now and then in creased\nclothes, walking with the light outland step, slinking into clubs as if\nthey could not remember whether or not they belonged to them. From\nthem you may get news of Sandy. Better still, you will hear of him at\nlittle forgotten fishing ports where the Albanian mountains dip to the\nAdriatic. If you struck a Mecca pilgrimage the odds are you would meet\na dozen of Sandy\'s friends in it. In shepherds\' huts in the Caucasus\nyou will find bits of his cast-off clothing, for he has a knack of\nshedding garments as he goes. In the caravanserais of Bokhara and\nSamarkand he is known, and there are shikaris in the Pamirs who still\nspeak of him round their fires. If you were going to visit Petrograd\nor Rome or Cairo it would be no use asking him for introductions; if he\ngave them, they would lead you into strange haunts. But if Fate\ncompelled you to go to Llasa or Yarkand or Seistan he could map out\nyour road for you and pass the word to potent friends. We call\nourselves insular, but the truth is that we are the only race on earth\nthat can produce men capable of getting inside the skin of remote\npeoples. Perhaps the Scots are better than the English, but we\'re all\na thousand per cent better than anybody else. Sandy was the wandering\nScot carried to the pitch of genius. In old days he would have led a\ncrusade or discovered a new road to the Indies. Today he merely roamed\nas the spirit moved him, till the war swept him up and dumped him down\nin my battalion.\n\nI got out Sir Walter\'s half-sheet of note-paper. It was not the\noriginal--naturally he wanted to keep that--but it was a careful\ntracing. I took it that Harry Bullivant had not written down the words\nas a memo for his own use. People who follow his career have good\nmemories. He must have written them in order that, if he perished and\nhis body was found, his friends might get a clue. Wherefore, I argued,\nthe words must be intelligible to somebody or other of our persuasion,\nand likewise they must be pretty well gibberish to any Turk or German\nthat found them.\n\nThe first, \'_Kasredin_\', I could make nothing of. I asked Sandy.\n\n\'You mean Nasr-ed-din,\' he said, still munching crumpets.\n\n\'What\'s that?\' I asked sharply.\n\n\'He\'s the General believed to be commanding against us in Mesopotamia.\nI remember him years ago in Aleppo. He talked bad French and drank the\nsweetest of sweet champagne.\'\n\nI looked closely at the paper. The \'K\' was unmistakable.\n\n\'Kasredin is nothing. It means in Arabic the House of Faith, and might\ncover anything from Hagia Sofia to a suburban villa. What\'s your next\npuzzle, Dick? Have you entered for a prize competition in a weekly\npaper?\'\n\n\'_Cancer,_\' I read out.\n\n\'It is the Latin for a crab. Likewise it is the name of a painful\ndisease. It is also a sign of the Zodiac.\'\n\n\'_v. I_,\' I read.\n\n\'There you have me. It sounds like the number of a motor-car. The\npolice would find out for you. I call this rather a difficult\ncompetition. What\'s the prize?\'\n\nI passed him the paper. \'Who wrote it? It looks as if he had been in\na hurry.\'\n\n\'Harry Bullivant,\' I said.\n\nSandy\'s face grew solemn. \'Old Harry. He was at my tutor\'s. The best\nfellow God ever made. I saw his name in the casualty list before Kut.\n... Harry didn\'t do things without a purpose. What\'s the story of\nthis paper?\'\n\n\'Wait till after dinner,\' I said. \'I\'m going to change and have a\nbath. There\'s an American coming to dine, and he\'s part of the\nbusiness.\'\n\nMr Blenkiron arrived punctual to the minute in a fur coat like a\nRussian prince\'s. Now that I saw him on his feet I could judge him\nbetter. He had a fat face, but was not too plump in figure, and very\nmuscular wrists showed below his shirt-cuffs. I fancied that, if the\noccasion called, he might be a good man with his hands.\n\nSandy and I ate a hearty meal, but the American picked at his boiled\nfish and sipped his milk a drop at a time. When the servant had\ncleared away, he was as good as his word and laid himself out on my\nsofa. I offered him a good cigar, but he preferred one of his own lean\nblack abominations. Sandy stretched his length in an easy chair and\nlit his pipe. \'Now for your story, Dick,\' he said.\n\nI began, as Sir Walter had begun with me, by telling them about the\npuzzle in the Near East. I pitched a pretty good yarn, for I had been\nthinking a lot about it, and the mystery of the business had caught my\nfancy. Sandy got very keen.\n\n\'It is possible enough. Indeed, I\'ve been expecting it, though I\'m\nhanged if I can imagine what card the Germans have got up their sleeve.\nIt might be any one of twenty things. Thirty years ago there was a\nbogus prophecy that played the devil in Yemen. Or it might be a flag\nsuch as Ali Wad Helu had, or a jewel like Solomon\'s necklace in\nAbyssinia. You never know what will start off a jehad! But I rather\nthink it\'s a man.\'\n\n\'Where could he get his purchase?\' I asked.\n\n\'It\'s hard to say. If it were merely wild tribesmen like the Bedouin\nhe might have got a reputation as a saint and miracle-worker. Or he\nmight be a fellow that preached a pure religion, like the chap that\nfounded the Senussi. But I\'m inclined to think he must be something\nextra special if he can put a spell on the whole Moslem world. The\nTurk and the Persian wouldn\'t follow the ordinary new theology game.\nHe must be of the Blood. Your Mahdis and Mullahs and Imams were\nnobodies, but they had only a local prestige. To capture all\nIslam--and I gather that is what we fear--the man must be of the\nKoreish, the tribe of the Prophet himself.\'\n\n\'But how could any impostor prove that? For I suppose he\'s an\nimpostor.\'\n\n\'He would have to combine a lot of claims. His descent must be pretty\ngood to begin with, and there are families, remember, that claim the\nKoreish blood. Then he\'d have to be rather a wonder on his own\naccount--saintly, eloquent, and that sort of thing. And I expect he\'d\nhave to show a sign, though what that could be I haven\'t a notion.\'\n\n\'You know the East about as well as any living man. Do you think that\nkind of thing is possible?\' I asked.\n\n\'Perfectly,\' said Sandy, with a grave face.\n\n\'Well, there\'s the ground cleared to begin with. Then there\'s the\nevidence of pretty well every secret agent we possess. That all seems\nto prove the fact. But we have no details and no clues except that bit\nof paper.\' I told them the story of it.\n\nSandy studied it with wrinkled brows. \'It beats me. But it may be the\nkey for all that. A clue may be dumb in London and shout aloud at\nBaghdad.\'\n\n\'That\'s just the point I was coming to. Sir Walter says this thing is\nabout as important for our cause as big guns. He can\'t give me orders,\nbut he offers the job of going out to find what the mischief is. Once\nhe knows that, he says he can checkmate it. But it\'s got to be found\nout soon, for the mine may be sprung at any moment. I\'ve taken on the\njob. Will you help?\'\n\nSandy was studying the ceiling.\n\n\'I should add that it\'s about as safe as playing chuck-farthing at the\nLoos Cross-roads, the day you and I went in. And if we fail nobody can\nhelp us.\'\n\n\'Oh, of course, of course,\' said Sandy in an abstracted voice.\n\nMr Blenkiron, having finished his after-dinner recumbency, had sat up\nand pulled a small table towards him. From his pocket he had taken a\npack of Patience cards and had begun to play the game called the Double\nNapoleon. He seemed to be oblivious of the conversation.\n\nSuddenly I had a feeling that the whole affair was stark lunacy. Here\nwere we three simpletons sitting in a London flat and projecting a\nmission into the enemy\'s citadel without an idea what we were to do or\nhow we were to do it. And one of the three was looking at the ceiling,\nand whistling softly through his teeth, and another was playing\nPatience. The farce of the thing struck me so keenly that I laughed.\n\nSandy looked at me sharply.\n\n\'You feel like that? Same with me. It\'s idiocy, but all war is\nidiotic, and the most whole-hearted idiot is apt to win. We\'re to go\non this mad trail wherever we think we can hit it. Well, I\'m with you.\nBut I don\'t mind admitting that I\'m in a blue funk. I had got myself\nadjusted to this trench business and was quite happy. And now you have\nhoicked me out, and my feet are cold.\'\n\n\'I don\'t believe you know what fear is,\' I said.\n\n\'There you\'re wrong, Dick,\' he said earnestly. \'Every man who isn\'t a\nmaniac knows fear. I have done some daft things, but I never started\non them without wishing they were over. Once I\'m in the show I get\neasier, and by the time I\'m coming out I\'m sorry to leave it. But at\nthe start my feet are icy.\'\n\n\'Then I take it you\'re coming?\'\n\n\'Rather,\' he said. \'You didn\'t imagine I would go back on you?\'\n\n\'And you, sir?\' I addressed Blenkiron.\n\nHis game of Patience seemed to be coming out. He was completing eight\nlittle heaps of cards with a contented grunt. As I spoke, he raised\nhis sleepy eyes and nodded.\n\n\'Why, yes,\' he said. \'You gentlemen mustn\'t think that I haven\'t been\nfollowing your most engrossing conversation. I guess I haven\'t missed\na syllable. I find that a game of Patience stimulates the digestion\nafter meals and conduces to quiet reflection. John S. Blenkiron is\nwith you all the time.\'\n\nHe shuffled the cards and dealt for a new game.\n\nI don\'t think I ever expected a refusal, but this ready assent cheered\nme wonderfully. I couldn\'t have faced the thing alone.\n\n\'Well, that\'s settled. Now for ways and means. We three have got to\nput ourselves in the way of finding out Germany\'s secret, and we have\nto go where it is known. Somehow or other we have to reach\nConstantinople, and to beat the biggest area of country we must go by\ndifferent roads. Sandy, my lad, you\'ve got to get into Turkey. You\'re\nthe only one of us that knows that engaging people. You can\'t get in by\nEurope very easily, so you must try Asia. What about the coast of Asia\nMinor?\'\n\n\'It could be done,\' he said. \'You\'d better leave that entirely to me.\nI\'ll find out the best way. I suppose the Foreign Office will help me\nto get to the jumping-off place?\'\n\n\'Remember,\' I said, \'it\'s no good getting too far east. The secret, so\nfar as concerns us, is still west of Constantinople.\'\n\n\'I see that. I\'ll blow in on the Bosporus by a short tack.\'\n\n\'For you, Mr Blenkiron, I would suggest a straight journey. You\'re an\nAmerican, and can travel through Germany direct. But I wonder how far\nyour activities in New York will allow you to pass as a neutral?\'\n\n\'I have considered that, Sir,\' he said. \'I have given some thought to\nthe pecooliar psychology of the great German nation. As I read them\nthey\'re as cunning as cats, and if you play the feline game they will\noutwit you every time. Yes, Sir, they are no slouches at sleuth-work.\nIf I were to buy a pair of false whiskers and dye my hair and dress\nlike a Baptist parson and go into Germany on the peace racket, I guess\nthey\'d be on my trail like a knife, and I should be shot as a spy\ninside of a week or doing solitary in the Moabite prison. But they\nlack the larger vision. They can be bluffed, Sir. With your approval I\nshall visit the Fatherland as John S. Blenkiron, once a thorn in the\nside of their brightest boys on the other side. But it will be a\ndifferent John S. I reckon he will have experienced a change of heart.\nHe will have come to appreciate the great, pure, noble soul of Germany,\nand he will be sorrowing for his past like a converted gun-man at a\ncamp meeting. He will be a victim of the meanness and perfidy of the\nBritish Government. I am going to have a first-class row with your\nForeign Office about my passport, and I am going to speak harsh words\nabout them up and down this metropolis. I am going to be shadowed by\nyour sleuths at my port of embarkation, and I guess I shall run up hard\nagainst the British Legations in Scandinavia. By that time our\nTeutonic friends will have begun to wonder what has happened to John\nS., and to think that maybe they have been mistaken in that child. So,\nwhen I get to Germany they will be waiting for me with an open mind.\nThen I judge my conduct will surprise and encourage them. I will\nconfide to them valuable secret information about British preparations,\nand I will show up the British lion as the meanest kind of cur. You\nmay trust me to make a good impression. After that I\'ll move\neastwards, to see the demolition of the British Empire in those parts.\nBy the way, where is the _rendezvous_?\'\n\n\'This is the 17th day of November. If we can\'t find out what we want\nin two months we may chuck the job. On the 17th of January we should\nforgather in Constantinople. Whoever gets there first waits for the\nothers. If by that date we\'re not all present, it will be considered\nthat the missing man has got into trouble and must be given up. If\never we get there we\'ll be coming from different points and in\ndifferent characters, so we want a rendezvous where all kinds of odd\nfolk assemble. Sandy, you know Constantinople. You fix the\nmeeting-place.\'\n\n\'I\'ve already thought of that,\' he said, and going to the writing-table\nhe drew a little plan on a sheet of paper. \'That lane runs down from\nthe Kurdish Bazaar in Galata to the ferry of Ratchik. Half-way down on\nthe left-hand side is a cafe kept by a Greek called Kuprasso. Behind\nthe cafe is a garden, surrounded by high walls which were parts of the\nold Byzantine Theatre. At the end of the garden is a shanty called the\nGarden-house of Suliman the Red. It has been in its time a\ndancing-hall and a gambling hell and God knows what else. It\'s not a\nplace for respectable people, but the ends of the earth converge there\nand no questions are asked. That\'s the best spot I can think of for a\nmeeting-place.\'\n\nThe kettle was simmering by the fire, the night was raw, and it seemed\nthe hour for whisky-punch. I made a brew for Sandy and myself and\nboiled some milk for Blenkiron.\n\n\'What about language?\' I asked. \'You\'re all right, Sandy?\'\n\n\'I know German fairly well; and I can pass anywhere as a Turk. The\nfirst will do for eavesdropping and the second for ordinary business.\'\n\n\'And you?\' I asked Blenkiron.\n\n\'I was left out at Pentecost,\' he said. \'I regret to confess I have no\ngift of tongues. But the part I have chosen for myself don\'t require\nthe polyglot. Never forget I\'m plain John S. Blenkiron, a citizen of\nthe great American Republic.\'\n\n\'You haven\'t told us your own line, Dick,\' Sandy said.\n\n\'I am going to the Bosporus through Germany, and, not being a neutral,\nit won\'t be a very cushioned journey.\'\n\nSandy looked grave.\n\n\'That sounds pretty desperate. Is your German good enough?\'\n\n\'Pretty fair; quite good enough to pass as a native. But officially I\nshall not understand one word. I shall be a Boer from Western Cape\nColony: one of Maritz\'s old lot who after a bit of trouble has got\nthrough Angola and reached Europe. I shall talk Dutch and nothing\nelse. And, my hat! I shall be pretty bitter about the British. There\'s\na powerful lot of good swear-words in the taal. I shall know all about\nAfrica, and be panting to get another whack at the _verdommt rooinek_.\nWith luck they may send me to the Uganda show or to Egypt, and I shall\ntake care to go by Constantinople. If I\'m to deal with the Mohammedan\nnatives they\'re bound to show me what hand they hold. At least, that\'s\nthe way I look at it.\'\n\nWe filled our glasses--two of punch and one of milk--and drank to our\nnext merry meeting. Then Sandy began to laugh, and I joined in. The\nsense of hopeless folly again descended on me. The best plans we could\nmake were like a few buckets of water to ease the drought of the Sahara\nor the old lady who would have stopped the Atlantic with a broom. I\nthought with sympathy of little Saint Teresa.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nPeter Pienaar\n\nOur various departures were unassuming, all but the American\'s. Sandy\nspent a busy fortnight in his subterranean fashion, now in the British\nMuseum, now running about the country to see old exploring companions,\nnow at the War Office, now at the Foreign Office, but mostly in my\nflat, sunk in an arm-chair and meditating. He left finally on December\n1st as a King\'s Messenger for Cairo. Once there I knew the King\'s\nMessenger would disappear, and some queer Oriental ruffian take his\nplace. It would have been impertinence in me to inquire into his\nplans. He was the real professional, and I was only the dabbler.\n\nBlenkiron was a different matter. Sir Walter told me to look out for\nsqualls, and the twinkle in his eye gave me a notion of what was\ncoming. The first thing the sportsman did was to write a letter to the\npapers signed with his name. There had been a debate in the House of\nCommons on foreign policy, and the speech of some idiot there gave him\nhis cue. He declared that he had been heart and soul with the British\nat the start, but that he was reluctantly compelled to change his\nviews. He said our blockade of Germany had broken all the laws of God\nand humanity, and he reckoned that Britain was now the worst exponent\nof Prussianism going. That letter made a fine racket, and the paper\nthat printed it had a row with the Censor. But that was only the\nbeginning of Mr Blenkiron\'s campaign. He got mixed up with some\nmountebanks called the League of Democrats against Aggression,\ngentlemen who thought that Germany was all right if we could only keep\nfrom hurting her feelings. He addressed a meeting under their\nauspices, which was broken up by the crowd, but not before John S. had\ngot off his chest a lot of amazing stuff. I wasn\'t there, but a man\nwho was told me that he never heard such clotted nonsense. He said\nthat Germany was right in wanting the freedom of the seas, and that\nAmerica would back her up, and that the British Navy was a bigger\nmenace to the peace of the world than the Kaiser\'s army. He admitted\nthat he had once thought differently, but he was an honest man and not\nafraid to face facts. The oration closed suddenly, when he got a\nbrussels-sprout in the eye, at which my friend said he swore in a very\nunpacifist style.\n\nAfter that he wrote other letters to the Press, saying that there was\nno more liberty of speech in England, and a lot of scallywags backed\nhim up. Some Americans wanted to tar and feather him, and he got\nkicked out of the Savoy. There was an agitation to get him deported,\nand questions were asked in Parliament, and the Under-Secretary for\nForeign Affairs said his department had the matter in hand. I was\nbeginning to think that Blenkiron was carrying his tomfoolery too far,\nso I went to see Sir Walter, but he told me to keep my mind easy.\n\n\'Our friend\'s motto is \"Thorough\",\' he said, \'and he knows very well\nwhat he is about. We have officially requested him to leave, and he\nsails from Newcastle on Monday. He will be shadowed wherever he goes,\nand we hope to provoke more outbreaks. He is a very capable fellow.\'\n\nThe last I saw of him was on the Saturday afternoon when I met him in\nSt James\'s Street and offered to shake hands. He told me that my\nuniform was a pollution, and made a speech to a small crowd about it.\nThey hissed him and he had to get into a taxi. As he departed there\nwas just the suspicion of a wink in his left eye. On Monday I read that\nhe had gone off, and the papers observed that our shores were well quit\nof him.\n\nI sailed on December 3rd from Liverpool in a boat bound for the\nArgentine that was due to put in at Lisbon. I had of course to get a\nForeign Office passport to leave England, but after that my connection\nwith the Government ceased. All the details of my journey were\ncarefully thought out. Lisbon would be a good jumping-off place, for\nit was the rendezvous of scallywags from most parts of Africa. My kit\nwas an old Gladstone bag, and my clothes were the relics of my South\nAfrican wardrobe. I let my beard grow for some days before I sailed,\nand, since it grows fast, I went on board with the kind of hairy chin\nyou will see on the young Boer. My name was now Brandt, Cornelis\nBrandt--at least so my passport said, and passports never lie.\n\nThere were just two other passengers on that beastly boat, and they\nnever appeared till we were out of the Bay. I was pretty bad myself,\nbut managed to move about all the time, for the frowst in my cabin\nwould have sickened a hippo. The old tub took two days and a night to\nwaddle from Ushant to Finisterre. Then the weather changed and we came\nout of snow-squalls into something very like summer. The hills of\nPortugal were all blue and yellow like the Kalahari, and before we made\nthe Tagus I was beginning to forget I had ever left Rhodesia. There\nwas a Dutchman among the sailors with whom I used to patter the taal,\nand but for \'Good morning\' and \'Good evening\' in broken English to the\ncaptain, that was about all the talking I did on the cruise.\n\nWe dropped anchor off the quays of Lisbon on a shiny blue morning,\npretty near warm enough to wear flannels. I had now got to be very\nwary. I did not leave the ship with the shore-going boat, but made a\nleisurely breakfast. Then I strolled on deck, and there, just casting\nanchor in the middle of the stream, was another ship with a blue and\nwhite funnel I knew so well. I calculated that a month before she had\nbeen smelling the mangrove swamps of Angola. Nothing could better\nanswer my purpose. I proposed to board her, pretending I was looking\nfor a friend, and come on shore from her, so that anyone in Lisbon who\nchose to be curious would think I had landed straight from Portuguese\nAfrica.\n\nI hailed one of the adjacent ruffians, and got into his rowboat, with\nmy kit. We reached the vessel--they called her the _Henry the\nNavigator_--just as the first shore-boat was leaving. The crowd in it\nwere all Portuguese, which suited my book.\n\nBut when I went up the ladder the first man I met was old Peter Pienaar.\n\nHere was a piece of sheer monumental luck. Peter had opened his eyes\nand his mouth, and had got as far as \'Allemachtig\', when I shut him\nup.\n\n\'Brandt,\' I said, \'Cornelis Brandt. That\'s my name now, and don\'t you\nforget it. Who is the captain here? Is it still old Sloggett?\'\n\n\'_Ja,_\' said Peter, pulling himself together. \'He was speaking about\nyou yesterday.\'\n\nThis was better and better. I sent Peter below to get hold of\nSloggett, and presently I had a few words with that gentleman in his\ncabin with the door shut.\n\n\'You\'ve got to enter my name in the ship\'s books. I came aboard at\nMossamedes. And my name\'s Cornelis Brandt.\'\n\nAt first Sloggett was for objecting. He said it was a felony. I told\nhim that I dared say it was, but he had got to do it, for reasons which\nI couldn\'t give, but which were highly creditable to all parties. In\nthe end he agreed, and I saw it done. I had a pull on old Sloggett,\nfor I had known him ever since he owned a dissolute tug-boat at Delagoa\nBay.\n\nThen Peter and I went ashore and swaggered into Lisbon as if we owned\nDe Beers. We put up at the big hotel opposite the railway station, and\nlooked and behaved like a pair of lowbred South Africans home for a\nspree. It was a fine bright day, so I hired a motor-car and said I\nwould drive it myself. We asked the name of some beauty-spot to visit,\nand were told Cintra and shown the road to it. I wanted a quiet place\nto talk, for I had a good deal to say to Peter Pienaar.\n\nI christened that car the Lusitanian Terror, and it was a marvel that\nwe did not smash ourselves up. There was something immortally wrong\nwith its steering gear. Half a dozen times we slewed across the road,\ninviting destruction. But we got there in the end, and had luncheon in\nan hotel opposite the Moorish palace. There we left the car and\nwandered up the slopes of a hill, where, sitting among scrub very like\nthe veld, I told Peter the situation of affairs.\n\nBut first a word must be said about Peter. He was the man that taught\nme all I ever knew of veld-craft, and a good deal about human nature\nbesides. He was out of the Old Colony--Burgersdorp, I think--but he\nhad come to the Transvaal when the Lydenburg goldfields started. He\nwas prospector, transport-rider, and hunter in turns, but principally\nhunter. In those early days he was none too good a citizen. He was in\nSwaziland with Bob Macnab, and you know what that means. Then he took\nto working off bogus gold propositions on Kimberley and Johannesburg\nmagnates, and what he didn\'t know about salting a mine wasn\'t\nknowledge. After that he was in the Kalahari, where he and Scotty\nSmith were familiar names. An era of comparative respectability dawned\nfor him with the Matabele War, when he did uncommon good scouting and\ntransport work. Cecil Rhodes wanted to establish him on a stock farm\ndown Salisbury way, but Peter was an independent devil and would call\nno man master. He took to big-game hunting, which was what God\nintended him for, for he could track a tsessebe in thick bush, and was\nfar the finest shot I have seen in my life. He took parties to the\nPungwe flats, and Barotseland, and up to Tanganyika. Then he made a\nspeciality of the Ngami region, where I once hunted with him, and he\nwas with me when I went prospecting in Damaraland.\n\nWhen the Boer War started, Peter, like many of the very great hunters,\ntook the British side and did most of our intelligence work in the\nNorth Transvaal. Beyers would have hanged him if he could have caught\nhim, and there was no love lost between Peter and his own people for\nmany a day. When it was all over and things had calmed down a bit, he\nsettled in Bulawayo and used to go with me when I went on trek. At the\ntime when I left Africa two years before, I had lost sight of him for\nmonths, and heard that he was somewhere on the Congo poaching\nelephants. He had always a great idea of making things hum so loud in\nAngola that the Union Government would have to step in and annex it.\nAfter Rhodes Peter had the biggest notions south of the Line.\n\nHe was a man of about five foot ten, very thin and active, and as\nstrong as a buffalo. He had pale blue eyes, a face as gentle as a\ngirl\'s, and a soft sleepy voice. From his present appearance it looked\nas if he had been living hard lately. His clothes were of the cut you\nmight expect to get at Lobito Bay, he was as lean as a rake, deeply\nbrowned with the sun, and there was a lot of grey in his beard. He was\nfifty-six years old, and used to be taken for forty. Now he looked\nabout his age.\n\nI first asked him what he had been up to since the war began. He spat,\nin the Kaffir way he had, and said he had been having hell\'s time.\n\n\'I got hung up on the Kafue,\' he said. \'When I heard from old\nLetsitela that the white men were fighting I had a bright idea that I\nmight get into German South West from the north. You see I knew that\nBotha couldn\'t long keep out of the war. Well, I got into German\nterritory all right, and then a _skellum_ of an officer came along, and\ncommandeered all my mules, and wanted to commandeer me with them for\nhis fool army. He was a very ugly man with a yellow face.\' Peter\nfilled a deep pipe from a kudu-skin pouch.\n\n\'Were you commandeered?\' I asked.\n\n\'No. I shot him--not so as to kill, but to wound badly. It was all\nright, for he fired first on me. Got me too in the left shoulder. But\nthat was the beginning of bad trouble. I trekked east pretty fast, and\ngot over the border among the Ovamba. I have made many journeys, but\nthat was the worst. Four days I went without water, and six without\nfood. Then by bad luck I fell in with \'Nkitla--you remember, the\nhalf-caste chief. He said I owed him money for cattle which I bought\nwhen I came there with Carowab. It was a lie, but he held to it, and\nwould give me no transport. So I crossed the Kalahari on my feet.\nUgh, it was as slow as a vrouw coming from _nachtmaal_. It took weeks\nand weeks, and when I came to Lechwe\'s kraal, I heard that the fighting\nwas over and that Botha had conquered the Germans. That, too, was a\nlie, but it deceived me, and I went north into Rhodesia, where I\nlearned the truth. But by then I judged the war had gone too far for\nme to make any profit out of it, so I went into Angola to look for\nGerman refugees. By that time I was hating Germans worse than hell.\'\n\n\'But what did you propose to do with them?\' I asked.\n\n\'I had a notion they would make trouble with the Government in those\nparts. I don\'t specially love the Portugoose, but I\'m for him against\nthe Germans every day. Well, there was trouble, and I had a merry time\nfor a month or two. But by and by it petered out, and I thought I had\nbetter clear for Europe, for South Africa was settling down just as the\nbig show was getting really interesting. So here I am, Cornelis, my\nold friend. If I shave my beard will they let me join the Flying\nCorps?\'\n\nI looked at Peter sitting there smoking, as imperturbable as if he had\nbeen growing mealies in Natal all his life and had run home for a\nmonth\'s holiday with his people in Peckham.\n\n\'You\'re coming with me, my lad,\' I said. \'We\'re going into Germany.\'\n\nPeter showed no surprise. \'Keep in mind that I don\'t like the\nGermans,\' was all he said. \'I\'m a quiet Christian man, but I\'ve the\ndevil of a temper.\'\n\nThen I told him the story of our mission. \'You and I have got to be\nMaritz\'s men. We went into Angola, and now we\'re trekking for the\nFatherland to get a bit of our own back from the infernal English.\nNeither of us knows any German--publicly. We\'d better plan out the\nfighting we were in--Kakamas will do for one, and Schuit Drift. You\nwere a Ngamiland hunter before the war. They won\'t have your\n_dossier_, so you can tell any lie you like. I\'d better be an educated\nAfrikander, one of Beyers\'s bright lads, and a pal of old Hertzog. We\ncan let our imagination loose about that part, but we must stick to the\nsame yarn about the fighting.\'\n\n\'_Ja_, Cornelis,\' said Peter. (He had called me Cornelis ever since I\nhad told him my new name. He was a wonderful chap for catching on to\nany game.) \'But after we get into Germany, what then? There can\'t be\nmuch difficulty about the beginning. But once we\'re among the\nbeer-swillers I don\'t quite see our line. We\'re to find out about\nsomething that\'s going on in Turkey? When I was a boy the predikant\nused to preach about Turkey. I wish I was better educated and\nremembered whereabouts in the map it was.\'\n\n\'You leave that to me,\' I said; \'I\'ll explain it all to you before we\nget there. We haven\'t got much of a spoor, but we\'ll cast about, and\nwith luck will pick it up. I\'ve seen you do it often enough when we\nhunted kudu on the Kafue.\'\n\nPeter nodded. \'Do we sit still in a German town?\' he asked anxiously.\n\'I shouldn\'t like that, Cornelis.\'\n\n\'We move gently eastward to Constantinople,\' I said.\n\nPeter grinned. \'We should cover a lot of new country. You can reckon\non me, friend Cornelis. I\'ve always had a hankering to see Europe.\'\n\nHe rose to his feet and stretched his long arms.\n\n\'We\'d better begin at once. God, I wonder what\'s happened to old Solly\nMaritz, with his bottle face? Yon was a fine battle at the drift when\nI was sitting up to my neck in the Orange praying that Brits\' lads\nwould take my head for a stone.\'\n\nPeter was as thorough a mountebank, when he got started, as Blenkiron\nhimself. All the way back to Lisbon he yarned about Maritz and his\nadventures in German South West till I half believed they were true.\nHe made a very good story of our doings, and by his constant harping on\nit I pretty soon got it into my memory. That was always Peter\'s way.\nHe said if you were going to play a part, you must think yourself into\nit, convince yourself that you were it, till you really were it and\ndidn\'t act but behaved naturally. The two men who had started that\nmorning from the hotel door had been bogus enough, but the two men that\nreturned were genuine desperadoes itching to get a shot at England.\n\nWe spent the evening piling up evidence in our favour. Some kind of\nrepublic had been started in Portugal, and ordinarily the cafes would\nhave been full of politicians, but the war had quieted all these local\nsquabbles, and the talk was of nothing but what was doing in France and\nRussia. The place we went to was a big, well-lighted show on a main\nstreet, and there were a lot of sharp-eyed fellows wandering about that\nI guessed were spies and police agents. I knew that Britain was the one\ncountry that doesn\'t bother about this kind of game, and that it would\nbe safe enough to let ourselves go.\n\nI talked Portuguese fairly well, and Peter spoke it like a Lourenco\nMarques bar-keeper, with a lot of Shangaan words to fill up. He\nstarted on curacao, which I reckoned was a new drink to him, and\npresently his tongue ran freely. Several neighbours pricked up their\nears, and soon we had a small crowd round our table.\n\nWe talked to each other of Maritz and our doings. It didn\'t seem to be\na popular subject in that cafe. One big blue-black fellow said that\nMaritz was a dirty swine who would soon be hanged. Peter quickly\ncaught his knife-wrist with one hand and his throat with the other, and\ndemanded an apology. He got it. The Lisbon _boulevardiers_ have not\nlost any lions.\n\nAfter that there was a bit of a squash in our corner. Those near to us\nwere very quiet and polite, but the outer fringe made remarks. When\nPeter said that if Portugal, which he admitted he loved, was going to\nstick to England she was backing the wrong horse, there was a murmur of\ndisapproval. One decent-looking old fellow, who had the air of a\nship\'s captain, flushed all over his honest face, and stood up looking\nstraight at Peter. I saw that we had struck an Englishman, and\nmentioned it to Peter in Dutch.\n\nPeter played his part perfectly. He suddenly shut up, and, with\nfurtive looks around him, began to jabber to me in a low voice. He was\nthe very picture of the old stage conspirator.\n\nThe old fellow stood staring at us. \'I don\'t very well understand this\ndamned lingo,\' he said; \'but if so be you dirty Dutchmen are sayin\'\nanything against England, I\'ll ask you to repeat it. And if so be as\nyou repeats it I\'ll take either of you on and knock the face off him.\'\n\nHe was a chap after my own heart, but I had to keep the game up. I\nsaid in Dutch to Peter that we mustn\'t get brawling in a public house.\n\'Remember the big thing,\' I said darkly. Peter nodded, and the old\nfellow, after staring at us for a bit, spat scornfully, and walked out.\n\n\'The time is coming when the Englander will sing small,\' I observed to\nthe crowd. We stood drinks to one or two, and then swaggered into the\nstreet. At the door a hand touched my arm, and, looking down, I saw a\nlittle scrap of a man in a fur coat.\n\n\'Will the gentlemen walk a step with me and drink a glass of beer?\' he\nsaid in very stiff Dutch.\n\n\'Who the devil are you?\' I asked.\n\n\'_Gott strafe England!_\' was his answer, and, turning back the lapel of\nhis coat, he showed some kind of ribbon in his buttonhole.\n\n\'Amen,\' said Peter. \'Lead on, friend. We don\'t mind if we do.\'\n\nHe led us to a back street and then up two pairs of stairs to a very\nsnug little flat. The place was filled with fine red lacquer, and I\nguessed that art-dealing was his nominal business. Portugal, since the\nrepublic broke up the convents and sold up the big royalist grandees,\nwas full of bargains in the lacquer and curio line.\n\nHe filled us two long tankards of very good Munich beer.\n\n\'_Prosit_,\' he said, raising his glass. \'You are from South Africa.\nWhat make you in Europe?\'\n\nWe both looked sullen and secretive.\n\n\'That\'s our own business,\' I answered. \'You don\'t expect to buy our\nconfidence with a glass of beer.\'\n\n\'So?\' he said. \'Then I will put it differently. From your speech in\nthe cafe I judge you do not love the English.\'\n\nPeter said something about stamping on their grandmothers, a Kaffir\nphrase which sounded gruesome in Dutch.\n\nThe man laughed. \'That is all I want to know. You are on the German\nside?\'\n\n\'That remains to be seen,\' I said. \'If they treat me fair I\'ll fight\nfor them, or for anybody else that makes war on England. England has\nstolen my country and corrupted my people and made me an exile. We\nAfrikanders do not forget. We may be slow but we win in the end. We\ntwo are men worth a great price. Germany fights England in East\nAfrica. We know the natives as no Englishmen can ever know them. They\nare too soft and easy and the Kaffirs laugh at them. But we can handle\nthe blacks so that they will fight like devils for fear of us. What is\nthe reward, little man, for our services? I will tell you. There will\nbe no reward. We ask none. We fight for hate of England.\'\n\nPeter grunted a deep approval.\n\n\'That is good talk,\' said our entertainer, and his close-set eyes\nflashed. \'There is room in Germany for such men as you. Where are you\ngoing now, I beg to know.\'\n\n\'To Holland,\' I said. \'Then maybe we will go to Germany. We are tired\nwith travel and may rest a bit. This war will last long and our chance\nwill come.\'\n\n\'But you may miss your market,\' he said significantly. \'A ship sails\ntomorrow for Rotterdam. If you take my advice, you will go with her.\'\n\nThis was what I wanted, for if we stayed in Lisbon some real soldier of\nMaritz might drop in any day and blow the gaff.\n\n\'I recommend you to sail in the _Machado_,\' he repeated. \'There is\nwork for you in Germany--oh yes, much work; but if you delay the chance\nmay pass. I will arrange your journey. It is my business to help the\nallies of my fatherland.\'\n\nHe wrote down our names and an epitome of our doings contributed by\nPeter, who required two mugs of beer to help him through. He was a\nBavarian, it seemed, and we drank to the health of Prince Rupprecht,\nthe same blighter I was trying to do in at Loos. That was an irony\nwhich Peter unfortunately could not appreciate. If he could he would\nhave enjoyed it.\n\nThe little chap saw us back to our hotel, and was with us the next\nmorning after breakfast, bringing the steamer tickets. We got on board\nabout two in the afternoon, but on my advice he did not see us off. I\ntold him that, being British subjects and rebels at that, we did not\nwant to run any risks on board, assuming a British cruiser caught us up\nand searched us. But Peter took twenty pounds off him for travelling\nexpenses, it being his rule never to miss an opportunity of spoiling\nthe Egyptians.\n\nAs we were dropping down the Tagus we passed the old _Henry the\nNavigator_.\n\n\'I met Sloggett in the street this morning,\' said Peter, \'and he told\nme a little German man had been off in a boat at daybreak looking up\nthe passenger list. Yon was a right notion of yours, Cornelis. I am\nglad we are going among Germans. They are careful people whom it is a\npleasure to meet.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nAdventures of Two Dutchmen on the Loose\n\nThe Germans, as Peter said, are a careful people. A man met us on the\nquay at Rotterdam. I was a bit afraid that something might have turned\nup in Lisbon to discredit us, and that our little friend might have\nwarned his pals by telegram. But apparently all was serene.\n\nPeter and I had made our plans pretty carefully on the voyage. We had\ntalked nothing but Dutch, and had kept up between ourselves the role of\nMaritz\'s men, which Peter said was the only way to play a part well.\nUpon my soul, before we got to Holland I was not very clear in my own\nmind what my past had been. Indeed the danger was that the other side\nof my mind, which should be busy with the great problem, would get\natrophied, and that I should soon be mentally on a par with the\nordinary backveld desperado.\n\nWe had agreed that it would be best to get into Germany at once, and\nwhen the agent on the quay told us of a train at midday we decided to\ntake it.\n\nI had another fit of cold feet before we got over the frontier. At the\nstation there was a King\'s Messenger whom I had seen in France, and a\nwar correspondent who had been trotting round our part of the front\nbefore Loos. I heard a woman speaking pretty clean-cut English, which\namid the hoarse Dutch jabber sounded like a lark among crows. There\nwere copies of the English papers for sale, and English cheap editions.\nI felt pretty bad about the whole business, and wondered if I should\never see these homely sights again.\n\nBut the mood passed when the train started. It was a clear blowing\nday, and as we crawled through the flat pastures of Holland my time was\ntaken up answering Peter\'s questions. He had never been in Europe\nbefore, and formed a high opinion of the farming. He said he reckoned\nthat such land would carry four sheep a morgen. We were thick in talk\nwhen we reached the frontier station and jolted over a canal bridge\ninto Germany.\n\nI had expected a big barricade with barbed wire and entrenchments. But\nthere was nothing to see on the German side but half a dozen sentries\nin the field-grey I had hunted at Loos. An under-officer, with the\nblack-and-gold button of the Landsturm, hoicked us out of the train,\nand we were all shepherded into a big bare waiting-room where a large\nstove burned. They took us two at a time into an inner room for\nexamination. I had explained to Peter all about this formality, but I\nwas glad we went in together, for they made us strip to the skin, and I\nhad to curse him pretty seriously to make him keep quiet. The men who\ndid the job were fairly civil, but they were mighty thorough. They\ntook down a list of all we had in our pockets and bags, and all the\ndetails from the passports the Rotterdam agent had given us.\n\nWe were dressing when a man in a lieutenant\'s uniform came in with a\npaper in his hand. He was a fresh-faced lad of about twenty, with\nshort-sighted spectacled eyes.\n\n\'Herr Brandt,\' he called out.\n\nI nodded.\n\n\'And this is Herr Pienaar?\' he asked in Dutch.\n\nHe saluted. \'Gentlemen, I apologize. I am late because of the\nslowness of the Herr Commandant\'s motor-car. Had I been in time you\nwould not have been required to go through this ceremony. We have been\nadvised of your coming, and I am instructed to attend you on your\njourney. The train for Berlin leaves in half an hour. Pray do me the\nhonour to join me in a bock.\'\n\nWith a feeling of distinction we stalked out of the ordinary ruck of\npassengers and followed the lieutenant to the station restaurant. He\nplunged at once into conversation, talking the Dutch of Holland, which\nPeter, who had forgotten his school-days, found a bit hard to follow.\nHe was unfit for active service, because of his eyes and a weak heart,\nbut he was a desperate fire-eater in that stuffy restaurant. By his\nway of it Germany could gobble up the French and the Russians whenever\nshe cared, but she was aiming at getting all the Middle East in her\nhands first, so that she could come out conqueror with the practical\ncontrol of half the world.\n\n\'Your friends the English,\' he said grinning, \'will come last. When we\nhave starved them and destroyed their commerce with our under-sea boats\nwe will show them what our navy can do. For a year they have been\nwasting their time in brag and politics, and we have been building\ngreat ships--oh, so many! My cousin at Kiel--\' and he looked over his\nshoulder.\n\nBut we never heard about that cousin at Kiel. A short sunburnt man\ncame in and our friend sprang up and saluted, clicking his heels like a\npair of tongs.\n\n\'These are the South African Dutch, Herr Captain,\' he said.\n\nThe new-comer looked us over with bright intelligent eyes, and started\nquestioning Peter in the taal. It was well that we had taken some\npains with our story, for this man had been years in German South West,\nand knew every mile of the borders. Zorn was his name, and both Peter\nand I thought we remembered hearing him spoken of.\n\nI am thankful to say that we both showed up pretty well. Peter told\nhis story to perfection, not pitching it too high, and asking me now\nand then for a name or to verify some detail. Captain Zorn looked\nsatisfied.\n\n\'You seem the right kind of fellows,\' he said. \'But remember\'--and he\nbent his brows on us--\'we do not understand slimness in this land. If\nyou are honest you will be rewarded, but if you dare to play a double\ngame you will be shot like dogs. Your race has produced over many\ntraitors for my taste.\'\n\n\'I ask no reward,\' I said gruffly. \'We are not Germans or Germany\'s\nslaves. But so long as she fights against England we will fight for\nher.\'\n\n\'Bold words,\' he said; \'but you must bow your stiff necks to discipline\nfirst. Discipline has been the weak point of you Boers, and you have\nsuffered for it. You are no more a nation. In Germany we put\ndiscipline first and last, and therefore we will conquer the world.\nOff with you now. Your train starts in three minutes. We will see\nwhat von Stumm will make of you.\'\n\nThat fellow gave me the best \'feel\' of any German I had yet met. He was\na white man and I could have worked with him. I liked his stiff chin\nand steady blue eyes.\n\nMy chief recollection of our journey to Berlin was its commonplaceness.\nThe spectacled lieutenant fell asleep, and for the most part we had the\ncarriage to ourselves. Now and again a soldier on leave would drop in,\nmost of them tired men with heavy eyes. No wonder, poor devils, for\nthey were coming back from the Yser or the Ypres salient. I would have\nliked to talk to them, but officially of course I knew no German, and\nthe conversation I overheard did not signify much. It was mostly about\nregimental details, though one chap, who was in better spirits than the\nrest, observed that this was the last Christmas of misery, and that\nnext year he would be holidaying at home with full pockets. The others\nassented, but without much conviction.\n\nThe winter day was short, and most of the journey was made in the dark.\nI could see from the window the lights of little villages, and now and\nthen the blaze of ironworks and forges. We stopped at a town for\ndinner, where the platform was crowded with drafts waiting to go\nwestward. We saw no signs of any scarcity of food, such as the English\nnewspapers wrote about. We had an excellent dinner at the station\nrestaurant, which, with a bottle of white wine, cost just three\nshillings apiece. The bread, to be sure, was poor, but I can put up\nwith the absence of bread if I get a juicy fillet of beef and as good\nvegetables as you will see in the Savoy.\n\nI was a little afraid of our giving ourselves away in our sleep, but I\nneed have had no fear, for our escort slumbered like a hog with his\nmouth wide open. As we roared through the darkness I kept pinching\nmyself to make myself feel that I was in the enemy\'s land on a wild\nmission. The rain came on, and we passed through dripping towns, with\nthe lights shining from the wet streets. As we went eastward the\nlighting seemed to grow more generous. After the murk of London it was\nqueer to slip through garish stations with a hundred arc lights\nglowing, and to see long lines of lamps running to the horizon. Peter\ndropped off early, but I kept awake till midnight, trying to focus\nthoughts that persistently strayed. Then I, too, dozed and did not\nawake till about five in the morning, when we ran into a great busy\nterminus as bright as midday. It was the easiest and most unsuspicious\njourney I ever made.\n\nThe lieutenant stretched himself and smoothed his rumpled uniform. We\ncarried our scanty luggage to a _droschke_, for there seemed to be no\nporters. Our escort gave the address of some hotel and we rumbled out\ninto brightly lit empty streets.\n\n\'A mighty dorp,\' said Peter. \'Of a truth the Germans are a great\npeople.\'\n\nThe lieutenant nodded good-humouredly.\n\n\'The greatest people on earth,\' he said, \'as their enemies will soon\nbear witness.\'\n\nI would have given a lot for a bath, but I felt that it would be\noutside my part, and Peter was not of the washing persuasion. But we\nhad a very good breakfast of coffee and eggs, and then the lieutenant\nstarted on the telephone. He began by being dictatorial, then he\nseemed to be switched on to higher authorities, for he grew more\npolite, and at the end he fairly crawled. He made some arrangements,\nfor he informed us that in the afternoon we would see some fellow whose\ntitle he could not translate into Dutch. I judged he was a great\nswell, for his voice became reverential at the mention of him.\n\nHe took us for a walk that morning after Peter and I had attended to\nour toilets. We were an odd pair of scallywags to look at, but as\nSouth African as a wait-a-bit bush. Both of us had ready-made tweed\nsuits, grey flannel shirts with flannel collars, and felt hats with\nbroader brims than they like in Europe. I had strong-nailed brown\nboots, Peter a pair of those mustard-coloured abominations which the\nPortuguese affect and which made him hobble like a Chinese lady. He\nhad a scarlet satin tie which you could hear a mile off. My beard had\ngrown to quite a respectable length, and I trimmed it like General\nSmuts\'. Peter\'s was the kind of loose flapping thing the _taakhaar_\nloves, which has scarcely ever been shaved, and is combed once in a\nblue moon. I must say we made a pretty solid pair. Any South African\nwould have set us down as a Boer from the back-veld who had bought a\nsuit of clothes in the nearest store, and his cousin from some\none-horse dorp who had been to school and thought himself the devil of\na fellow. We fairly reeked of the sub-continent, as the papers call it.\n\nIt was a fine morning after the rain, and we wandered about in the\nstreets for a couple of hours. They were busy enough, and the shops\nlooked rich and bright with their Christmas goods, and one big store\nwhere I went to buy a pocket-knife was packed with customers. One\ndidn\'t see very many young men, and most of the women wore mourning.\nUniforms were everywhere, but their wearers generally looked like\ndug-outs or office fellows. We had a glimpse of the squat building\nwhich housed the General Staff and took off our hats to it. Then we\nstared at the Marinamt, and I wondered what plots were hatching there\nbehind old Tirpitz\'s whiskers. The capital gave one an impression of\nugly cleanness and a sort of dreary effectiveness. And yet I found it\ndepressing--more depressing than London. I don\'t know how to put it,\nbut the whole big concern seemed to have no soul in it, to be like a\nbig factory instead of a city. You won\'t make a factory look like a\nhouse, though you decorate its front and plant rose-bushes all round\nit. The place depressed and yet cheered me. It somehow made the German\npeople seem smaller.\n\nAt three o\'clock the lieutenant took us to a plain white building in a\nside street with sentries at the door. A young staff officer met us\nand made us wait for five minutes in an ante-room. Then we were\nushered into a big room with a polished floor on which Peter nearly sat\ndown. There was a log fire burning, and seated at a table was a little\nman in spectacles with his hair brushed back from his brow like a\npopular violinist. He was the boss, for the lieutenant saluted him and\nannounced our names. Then he disappeared, and the man at the table\nmotioned us to sit down in two chairs before him.\n\n\'Herr Brandt and Herr Pienaar?\' he asked, looking over his glasses.\n\nBut it was the other man that caught my eye. He stood with his back to\nthe fire leaning his elbows on the mantelpiece. He was a perfect\nmountain of a fellow, six and a half feet if he was an inch, with\nshoulders on him like a shorthorn bull. He was in uniform and the\nblack-and-white ribbon of the Iron Cross showed at a buttonhole. His\ntunic was all wrinkled and strained as if it could scarcely contain his\nhuge chest, and mighty hands were clasped over his stomach. That man\nmust have had the length of reach of a gorilla. He had a great, lazy,\nsmiling face, with a square cleft chin which stuck out beyond the rest.\nHis brow retreated and the stubby back of his head ran forward to meet\nit, while his neck below bulged out over his collar. His head was\nexactly the shape of a pear with the sharp end topmost.\n\nHe stared at me with his small bright eyes and I stared back. I had\nstruck something I had been looking for for a long time, and till that\nmoment I wasn\'t sure that it existed. Here was the German of\ncaricature, the real German, the fellow we were up against. He was as\nhideous as a hippopotamus, but effective. Every bristle on his odd\nhead was effective.\n\nThe man at the table was speaking. I took him to be a civilian\nofficial of sorts, pretty high up from his surroundings, perhaps an\nUnder-Secretary. His Dutch was slow and careful, but good--too good\nfor Peter. He had a paper before him and was asking us questions from\nit. They did not amount to much, being pretty well a repetition of\nthose Zorn had asked us at the frontier. I answered fluently, for I\nhad all our lies by heart.\n\nThen the man on the hearthrug broke in. \'I\'ll talk to them,\nExcellency,\' he said in German. \'You are too academic for those\noutland swine.\'\n\nHe began in the _taal_, with the thick guttural accent that you get in\nGerman South West. \'You have heard of me,\' he said. \'I am the Colonel\nvon Stumm who fought the Heraros.\'\n\nPeter pricked up his ears. \'_Ja_, Baas, you cut off the chief\nBaviaan\'s head and sent it in pickle about the country. I have seen\nit.\'\n\nThe big man laughed. \'You see I am not forgotten,\' he said to his\nfriend, and then to us: \'So I treat my enemies, and so will Germany\ntreat hers. You, too, if you fail me by a fraction of an inch.\' And\nhe laughed loud again.\n\nThere was something horrible in that boisterousness. Peter was\nwatching him from below his eyelids, as I have seen him watch a lion\nabout to charge.\n\nHe flung himself on a chair, put his elbows on the table, and thrust\nhis face forward.\n\n\'You have come from a damned muddled show. If I had Maritz in my power\nI would have him flogged at a wagon\'s end. Fools and pig-dogs, they\nhad the game in their hands and they flung it away. We could have\nraised a fire that would have burned the English into the sea, and for\nlack of fuel they let it die down. Then they try to fan it when the\nashes are cold.\'\n\nHe rolled a paper pellet and flicked it into the air. \'That is what I\nthink of your idiot general,\' he said, \'and of all you Dutch. As slow\nas a fat vrouw and as greedy as an aasvogel.\'\n\nWe looked very glum and sullen.\n\n\'A pair of dumb dogs,\' he cried. \'A thousand Brandenburgers would have\nwon in a fortnight. Seitz hadn\'t much to boast of, mostly clerks and\nfarmers and half-castes, and no soldier worth the name to lead them,\nbut it took Botha and Smuts and a dozen generals to hunt him down. But\nMaritz!\' His scorn came like a gust of wind.\n\n\'Maritz did all the fighting there was,\' said Peter sulkily. \'At any\nrate he wasn\'t afraid of the sight of the khaki like your lot.\'\n\n\'Maybe he wasn\'t,\' said the giant in a cooing voice; \'maybe he had his\nreasons for that. You Dutchmen have always a feather-bed to fall on.\nYou can always turn traitor. Maritz now calls himself Robinson, and\nhas a pension from his friend Botha.\'\n\n\'That,\' said Peter, \'is a very damned lie.\'\n\n\'I asked for information,\' said Stumm with a sudden politeness. \'But\nthat is all past and done with. Maritz matters no more than your old\nCronjes and Krugers. The show is over, and you are looking for safety.\nFor a new master perhaps? But, man, what can you bring? What can you\noffer? You and your Dutch are lying in the dust with the yoke on your\nnecks. The Pretoria lawyers have talked you round. You see that map,\'\nand he pointed to a big one on the wall. \'South Africa is coloured\ngreen. Not red for the English, or yellow for the Germans. Some day\nit will be yellow, but for a little it will be green--the colour of\nneutrals, of nothings, of boys and young ladies and chicken-hearts.\'\n\nI kept wondering what he was playing at.\n\nThen he fixed his eyes on Peter. \'What do you come here for? The\ngame\'s up in your own country. What can you offer us Germans? If we\ngave you ten million marks and sent you back you could do nothing.\nStir up a village row, perhaps, and shoot a policeman. South Africa is\ncounted out in this war. Botha is a cleverish man and has beaten you\ncalves\'-heads of rebels. Can you deny it?\'\n\nPeter couldn\'t. He was terribly honest in some things, and these were\nfor certain his opinions.\n\n\'No,\' he said, \'that is true, Baas.\'\n\n\'Then what in God\'s name can you do?\' shouted Stumm.\n\nPeter mumbled some foolishness about nobbling Angola for Germany and\nstarting a revolution among the natives. Stumm flung up his arms and\ncursed, and the Under-Secretary laughed.\n\nIt was high time for me to chip in. I was beginning to see the kind of\nfellow this Stumm was, and as he talked I thought of my mission, which\nhad got overlaid by my Boer past. It looked as if he might be useful.\n\n\'Let me speak,\' I said. \'My friend is a great hunter, but he fights\nbetter than he talks. He is no politician. You speak truth. South\nAfrica is a closed door for the present, and the key to it is\nelsewhere. Here in Europe, and in the east, and in other parts of\nAfrica. We have come to help you to find the key.\'\n\nStumm was listening. \'Go on, my little Boer. It will be a new thing\nto hear a _taakhaar_ on world-politics.\'\n\n\'You are fighting,\' I said, \'in East Africa; and soon you may fight in\nEgypt. All the east coast north of the Zambesi will be your\nbattle-ground. The English run about the world with little\nexpeditions. I do not know where the places are, though I read of them\nin the papers. But I know my Africa. You want to beat them here in\nEurope and on the seas. Therefore, like wise generals, you try to\ndivide them and have them scattered throughout the globe while you\nstick at home. That is your plan?\'\n\n\'A second Falkenhayn,\' said Stumm, laughing.\n\n\'Well, England will not let East Africa go. She fears for Egypt and\nshe fears, too, for India. If you press her there she will send armies\nand more armies till she is so weak in Europe that a child can crush\nher. That is England\'s way. She cares more for her Empire than for\nwhat may happen to her allies. So I say press and still press there,\ndestroy the railway to the Lakes, burn her capital, pen up every\nEnglishman in Mombasa island. At this moment it is worth for you a\nthousand Damaralands.\'\n\nThe man was really interested and the Under-Secretary, too, pricked up\nhis ears.\n\n\'We can keep our territory,\' said the former; \'but as for pressing, how\nthe devil are we to press? The accursed English hold the sea. We\ncannot ship men or guns there. South are the Portuguese and west the\nBelgians. You cannot move a mass without a lever.\'\n\n\'The lever is there, ready for you,\' I said.\n\n\'Then for God\'s sake show it me,\' he cried.\n\nI looked at the door to see that it was shut, as if what I had to say\nwas very secret.\n\n\'You need men, and the men are waiting. They are black, but they are\nthe stuff of warriors. All round your borders you have the remains of\ngreat fighting tribes, the Angoni, the Masai, the Manyumwezi, and above\nall the Somalis of the north, and the dwellers on the upper Nile. The\nBritish recruit their black regiments there, and so do you. But to get\nrecruits is not enough. You must set whole nations moving, as the Zulu\nunder Tchaka flowed over South Africa.\'\n\n\'It cannot be done,\' said the Under-Secretary.\n\n\'It can be done,\' I said quietly. \'We two are here to do it.\'\n\nThis kind of talk was jolly difficult for me, chiefly because of\nStumm\'s asides in German to the official. I had, above all things, to\nget the credit of knowing no German, and, if you understand a language\nwell, it is not very easy when you are interrupted not to show that you\nknow it, either by a direct answer, or by referring to the interruption\nin what you say next. I had to be always on my guard, and yet it was\nup to me to be very persuasive and convince these fellows that I would\nbe useful. Somehow or other I had to get into their confidence.\n\n\'I have been for years up and down in Africa--Uganda and the Congo and\nthe Upper Nile. I know the ways of the Kaffir as no Englishman does.\nWe Afrikanders see into the black man\'s heart, and though he may hate\nus he does our will. You Germans are like the English; you are too big\nfolk to understand plain men. \"Civilize,\" you cry. \"Educate,\" say the\nEnglish. The black man obeys and puts away his gods, but he worships\nthem all the time in his soul. We must get his gods on our side, and\nthen he will move mountains. We must do as John Laputa did with\nSheba\'s necklace.\'\n\n\'That\'s all in the air,\' said Stumm, but he did not laugh.\n\n\'It is sober common sense,\' I said. \'But you must begin at the right\nend. First find the race that fears its priests. It is waiting for\nyou--the Mussulmans of Somaliland and the Abyssinian border and the\nBlue and White Nile. They would be like dried grasses to catch fire if\nyou used the flint and steel of their religion. Look what the English\nsuffered from a crazy Mullah who ruled only a dozen villages. Once get\nthe flames going and they will lick up the pagans of the west and\nsouth. This is the way of Africa. How many thousands, think you, were\nin the Mahdi\'s army who never heard of the Prophet till they saw the\nblack flags of the Emirs going into battle?\'\n\nStumm was smiling. He turned his face to the official and spoke with\nhis hand over his mouth, but I caught his words. They were: \'This is\nthe man for Hilda.\' The other pursed his lips and looked a little\nscared.\n\nStumm rang a bell and the lieutenant came in and clicked his heels. He\nnodded towards Peter. \'Take this man away with you. We have done with\nhim. The other fellow will follow presently.\'\n\nPeter went out with a puzzled face and Stumm turned to me.\n\n\'You are a dreamer, Brandt,\' he said. \'But I do not reject you on that\naccount. Dreams sometimes come true, when an army follows the\nvisionary. But who is going to kindle the flame?\'\n\n\'You,\' I said.\n\n\'What the devil do you mean?\' he asked.\n\n\'That is your part. You are the cleverest people in the world. You\nhave already half the Mussulman lands in your power. It is for you to\nshow us how to kindle a holy war, for clearly you have the secret of\nit. Never fear but we will carry out your order.\'\n\n\'We have no secret,\' he said shortly, and glanced at the official, who\nstared out of the window.\n\nI dropped my jaw and looked the picture of disappointment. \'I do not\nbelieve you,\' I said slowly. \'You play a game with me. I have not\ncome six thousand miles to be made a fool of.\'\n\n\'Discipline, by God,\' Stumm cried. \'This is none of your ragged\ncommandos.\' In two strides he was above me and had lifted me out of my\nseat. His great hands clutched my shoulders, and his thumbs gouged my\narmpits. I felt as if I were in the grip of a big ape. Then very\nslowly he shook me so that my teeth seemed loosened and my head swam.\nHe let me go and I dropped limply back in the chair.\n\n\'Now, go! _Futsack!_ And remember that I am your master. I, Ulric\nvon Stumm, who owns you as a Kaffir owns his mongrel. Germany may have\nsome use for you, my friend, when you fear me as you never feared your\nGod.\'\n\nAs I walked dizzily away the big man was smiling in his horrible way,\nand that little official was blinking and smiling too. I had struck a\ndashed queer country, so queer that I had had no time to remember that\nfor the first time in my life I had been bullied without hitting back.\nWhen I realized it I nearly choked with anger. But I thanked heaven I\nhad shown no temper, for I remembered my mission. Luck seemed to have\nbrought me into useful company.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nFurther Adventures of the Same\n\nNext morning there was a touch of frost and a nip in the air which\nstirred my blood and put me in buoyant spirits. I forgot my precarious\nposition and the long road I had still to travel. I came down to\nbreakfast in great form, to find Peter\'s even temper badly ruffled. He\nhad remembered Stumm in the night and disliked the memory; this he\nmuttered to me as we rubbed shoulders at the dining-room door. Peter\nand I got no opportunity for private talk. The lieutenant was with us\nall the time, and at night we were locked in our rooms. Peter\ndiscovered this through trying to get out to find matches, for he had\nthe bad habit of smoking in bed.\n\nOur guide started on the telephone, and announced that we were to be\ntaken to see a prisoners\' camp. In the afternoon I was to go somewhere\nwith Stumm, but the morning was for sight-seeing. \'You will see,\' he\ntold us, \'how merciful is a great people. You will also see some of\nthe hated English in our power. That will delight you. They are the\nforerunners of all their nation.\'\n\nWe drove in a taxi through the suburbs and then over a stretch of flat\nmarket-garden-like country to a low rise of wooded hills. After an\nhour\'s ride we entered the gate of what looked like a big reformatory\nor hospital. I believe it had been a home for destitute children.\nThere were sentries at the gate and massive concentric circles of\nbarbed wire through which we passed under an arch that was let down\nlike a portcullis at nightfall. The lieutenant showed his permit, and\nwe ran the car into a brick-paved yard and marched through a lot more\nsentries to the office of the commandant.\n\nHe was away from home, and we were welcomed by his deputy, a pale young\nman with a head nearly bald. There were introductions in German which\nour guide translated into Dutch, and a lot of elegant speeches about\nhow Germany was foremost in humanity as well as martial valour. Then\nthey stood us sandwiches and beer, and we formed a procession for a\ntour of inspection. There were two doctors, both mild-looking men in\nspectacles, and a couple of warders--under-officers of the good old\nburly, bullying sort I knew well. That was the cement which kept the\nGerman Army together. Her men were nothing to boast of on the average;\nno more were the officers, even in crack corps like the Guards and the\nBrandenburgers; but they seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of\nhard, competent N.C.O.s.\n\nWe marched round the wash-houses, the recreation-ground, the kitchens,\nthe hospital--with nobody in it save one chap with the \'flu.\' It\ndidn\'t seem to be badly done. This place was entirely for officers,\nand I expect it was a show place where American visitors were taken.\nIf half the stories one heard were true there were some pretty ghastly\nprisons away in South and East Germany.\n\nI didn\'t half like the business. To be a prisoner has always seemed to\nme about the worst thing that could happen to a man. The sight of\nGerman prisoners used to give me a bad feeling inside, whereas I looked\nat dead Boches with nothing but satisfaction. Besides, there was the\noff-chance that I might be recognized. So I kept very much in the\nshadow whenever we passed anybody in the corridors. The few we met\npassed us incuriously. They saluted the deputy-commandant, but\nscarcely wasted a glance on us. No doubt they thought we were\ninquisitive Germans come to gloat over them. They looked fairly fit,\nbut a little puffy about the eyes, like men who get too little\nexercise. They seemed thin, too. I expect the food, for all the\ncommandant\'s talk, was nothing to boast of. In one room people were\nwriting letters. It was a big place with only a tiny stove to warm it,\nand the windows were shut so that the atmosphere was a cold frowst. In\nanother room a fellow was lecturing on something to a dozen hearers and\ndrawing figures on a blackboard. Some were in ordinary khaki, others\nin any old thing they could pick up, and most wore greatcoats. Your\nblood gets thin when you have nothing to do but hope against hope and\nthink of your pals and the old days.\n\nI was moving along, listening with half an ear to the lieutenant\'s\nprattle and the loud explanations of the deputy-commandant, when I\npitchforked into what might have been the end of my business. We were\ngoing through a sort of convalescent room, where people were sitting\nwho had been in hospital. It was a big place, a little warmer than the\nrest of the building, but still abominably fuggy. There were about half\na dozen men in the room, reading and playing games. They looked at us\nwith lack-lustre eyes for a moment, and then returned to their\noccupations. Being convalescents I suppose they were not expected to\nget up and salute.\n\nAll but one, who was playing Patience at a little table by which we\npassed. I was feeling very bad about the thing, for I hated to see\nthese good fellows locked away in this infernal German hole when they\nmight have been giving the Boche his deserts at the front. The\ncommandant went first with Peter, who had developed a great interest in\nprisons. Then came our lieutenant with one of the doctors; then a\ncouple of warders; and then the second doctor and myself. I was\nabsent-minded at the moment and was last in the queue.\n\nThe Patience-player suddenly looked up and I saw his face. I\'m hanged\nif it wasn\'t Dolly Riddell, who was our brigade machine-gun officer at\nLoos. I had heard that the Germans had got him when they blew up a\nmine at the Quarries.\n\nI had to act pretty quick, for his mouth was agape, and I saw he was\ngoing to speak. The doctor was a yard ahead of me.\n\nI stumbled and spilt his cards on the floor. Then I kneeled to pick\nthem up and gripped his knee. His head bent to help me and I spoke low\nin his ear.\n\n\'I\'m Hannay all right. For God\'s sake don\'t wink an eye. I\'m here on\na secret job.\'\n\nThe doctor had turned to see what was the matter. I got a few more\nwords in. \'Cheer up, old man. We\'re winning hands down.\'\n\nThen I began to talk excited Dutch and finished the collection of the\ncards. Dolly was playing his part well, smiling as if he was amused by\nthe antics of a monkey. The others were coming back, the\ndeputy-commandant with an angry light in his dull eye. \'Speaking to\nthe prisoners is forbidden,\' he shouted.\n\nI looked blankly at him till the lieutenant translated.\n\n\'What kind of fellow is he?\' said Dolly in English to the doctor. \'He\nspoils my game and then jabbers High-Dutch at me.\'\n\nOfficially I knew English, and that speech of Dolly\'s gave me my cue.\nI pretended to be very angry with the very damned Englishman, and went\nout of the room close by the deputy-commandant, grumbling like a sick\njackal. After that I had to act a bit. The last place we visited was\nthe close-confinement part where prisoners were kept as a punishment\nfor some breach of the rules. They looked cheerless enough, but I\npretended to gloat over the sight, and said so to the lieutenant, who\npassed it on to the others. I have rarely in my life felt such a cad.\n\nOn the way home the lieutenant discoursed a lot about prisoners and\ndetention-camps, for at one time he had been on duty at Ruhleben.\nPeter, who had been in quod more than once in his life, was deeply\ninterested and kept on questioning him. Among other things he told us\nwas that they often put bogus prisoners among the rest, who acted as\nspies. If any plot to escape was hatched these fellows got into it and\nencouraged it. They never interfered till the attempt was actually\nmade and then they had them on toast. There was nothing the Boche\nliked so much as an excuse for sending a poor devil to \'solitary\'.\n\n\nThat afternoon Peter and I separated. He was left behind with the\nlieutenant and I was sent off to the station with my bag in the company\nof a Landsturm sergeant. Peter was very cross, and I didn\'t care for\nthe look of things; but I brightened up when I heard I was going\nsomewhere with Stumm. If he wanted to see me again he must think me of\nsome use, and if he was going to use me he was bound to let me into his\ngame. I liked Stumm about as much as a dog likes a scorpion, but I\nhankered for his society.\n\nAt the station platform, where the ornament of the Landsturm saved me\nall the trouble about tickets, I could not see my companion. I stood\nwaiting, while a great crowd, mostly of soldiers, swayed past me and\nfilled all the front carriages. An officer spoke to me gruffly and\ntold me to stand aside behind a wooden rail. I obeyed, and suddenly\nfound Stumm\'s eyes looking down at me.\n\n\'You know German?\' he asked sharply.\n\n\'A dozen words,\' I said carelessly. \'I\'ve been to Windhuk and learned\nenough to ask for my dinner. Peter--my friend--speaks it a bit.\'\n\n\'So,\' said Stumm. \'Well, get into the carriage. Not that one! There,\nthickhead!\'\n\nI did as I was bid, he followed, and the door was locked behind us.\nThe precaution was needless, for the sight of Stumm\'s profile at the\nplatform end would have kept out the most brazen. I wondered if I had\nwoken up his suspicions. I must be on my guard to show no signs of\nintelligence if he suddenly tried me in German, and that wouldn\'t be\neasy, for I knew it as well as I knew Dutch.\n\nWe moved into the country, but the windows were blurred with frost, and\nI saw nothing of the landscape. Stumm was busy with papers and let me\nalone. I read on a notice that one was forbidden to smoke, so to show\nmy ignorance of German I pulled out my pipe. Stumm raised his head,\nsaw what I was doing, and gruffly bade me put it away, as if he were an\nold lady that disliked the smell of tobacco.\n\nIn half an hour I got very bored, for I had nothing to read and my pipe\nwas _verboten_. People passed now and then in the corridors, but no\none offered to enter. No doubt they saw the big figure in uniform and\nthought he was the deuce of a staff swell who wanted solitude. I\nthought of stretching my legs in the corridor, and was just getting up\nto do it when somebody slid the door back and a big figure blocked the\nlight.\n\nHe was wearing a heavy ulster and a green felt hat. He saluted Stumm,\nwho looked up angrily, and smiled pleasantly on us both.\n\n\'Say, gentlemen,\' he said, \'have you room in here for a little one? I\nguess I\'m about smoked out of my car by your brave soldiers. I\'ve\ngotten a delicate stomach ...\'\n\nStumm had risen with a brow of wrath, and looked as if he were going to\npitch the intruder off the train. Then he seemed to halt and collect\nhimself, and the other\'s face broke into a friendly grin.\n\n\'Why, it\'s Colonel Stumm,\' he cried. (He pronounced it like the first\nsyllable in \'stomach\'.) \'Very pleased to meet you again, Colonel. I\nhad the honour of making your acquaintance at our Embassy. I reckon\nAmbassador Gerard didn\'t cotton to our conversation that night.\' And\nthe new-comer plumped himself down in the corner opposite me.\n\nI had been pretty certain I would run across Blenkiron somewhere in\nGermany, but I didn\'t think it would be so soon. There he sat staring\nat me with his full, unseeing eyes, rolling out platitudes to Stumm,\nwho was nearly bursting in his effort to keep civil. I looked moody\nand suspicious, which I took to be the right line.\n\n\'Things are getting a bit dead at Salonika,\' said Mr Blenkiron, by way\nof a conversational opening.\n\nStumm pointed to a notice which warned officers to refrain from\ndiscussing military operations with mixed company in a railway carriage.\n\n\'Sorry,\' said Blenkiron, \'I can\'t read that tombstone language of\nyours. But I reckon that that notice to trespassers, whatever it\nsignifies, don\'t apply to you and me. I take it this gentleman is in\nyour party.\'\n\nI sat and scowled, fixing the American with suspicious eyes.\n\n\'He is a Dutchman,\' said Stumm; \'South African Dutch, and he is not\nhappy, for he doesn\'t like to hear English spoken.\'\n\n\'We\'ll shake on that,\' said Blenkiron cordially. \'But who said I spoke\nEnglish? It\'s good American. Cheer up, friend, for it isn\'t the call\nthat makes the big wapiti, as they say out west in my country. I hate\nJohn Bull worse than a poison rattle. The Colonel can tell you that.\'\n\nI dare say he could, but at that moment, we slowed down at a station\nand Stumm got up to leave. \'Good day to you, Herr Blenkiron,\' he cried\nover his shoulder. \'If you consider your comfort, don\'t talk English\nto strange travellers. They don\'t distinguish between the different\nbrands.\'\n\nI followed him in a hurry, but was recalled by Blenkiron\'s voice.\n\n\'Say, friend,\' he shouted, \'you\'ve left your grip,\' and he handed me my\nbag from the luggage rack. But he showed no sign of recognition, and\nthe last I saw of him was sitting sunk in a corner with his head on his\nchest as if he were going to sleep. He was a man who kept up his parts\nwell.\n\n\nThere was a motor-car waiting--one of the grey military kind--and we\nstarted at a terrific pace over bad forest roads. Stumm had put away\nhis papers in a portfolio, and flung me a few sentences on the journey.\n\n\'I haven\'t made up my mind about you, Brandt,\' he announced. \'You may\nbe a fool or a knave or a good man. If you are a knave, we will shoot\nyou.\'\n\n\'And if I am a fool?\' I asked.\n\n\'Send you to the Yser or the Dvina. You will be respectable\ncannon-fodder.\'\n\n\'You cannot do that unless I consent,\' I said.\n\n\'Can\'t we?\' he said, smiling wickedly. \'Remember you are a citizen of\nnowhere. Technically, you are a rebel, and the British, if you go to\nthem, will hang you, supposing they have any sense. You are in our\npower, my friend, to do precisely what we like with you.\'\n\nHe was silent for a second, and then he said, meditatively:\n\n\'But I don\'t think you are a fool. You may be a scoundrel. Some kinds\nof scoundrel are useful enough. Other kinds are strung up with a rope.\nOf that we shall know more soon.\'\n\n\'And if I am a good man?\'\n\n\'You will be given a chance to serve Germany, the proudest privilege a\nmortal man can have.\' The strange man said this with a ringing\nsincerity in his voice that impressed me.\n\nThe car swung out from the trees into a park lined with saplings, and\nin the twilight I saw before me a biggish house like an overgrown Swiss\nchalet. There was a kind of archway, with a sham portcullis, and a\nterrace with battlements which looked as if they were made of stucco.\nWe drew up at a Gothic front door, where a thin middle-aged man in a\nshooting-jacket was waiting.\n\nAs we moved into the lighted hall I got a good look at our host. He was\nvery lean and brown, with the stoop in the shoulder that one gets from\nbeing constantly on horseback. He had untidy grizzled hair and a\nragged beard, and a pair of pleasant, short-sighted brown eyes.\n\n\'Welcome, my Colonel,\' he said. \'Is this the friend you spoke of?\'\n\n\'This is the Dutchman,\' said Stumm. \'His name is Brandt. Brandt, you\nsee before you Herr Gaudian.\'\n\nI knew the name, of course; there weren\'t many in my profession that\ndidn\'t. He was one of the biggest railway engineers in the world, the\nman who had built the Baghdad and Syrian railways, and the new lines in\nGerman East. I suppose he was about the greatest living authority on\ntropical construction. He knew the East and he knew Africa; clearly I\nhad been brought down for him to put me through my paces.\n\nA blonde maidservant took me to my room, which had a bare polished\nfloor, a stove, and windows that, unlike most of the German kind I had\nsampled, seemed made to open. When I had washed I descended to the\nhall, which was hung round with trophies of travel, like Dervish\njibbahs and Masai shields and one or two good buffalo heads. Presently\na bell was rung. Stumm appeared with his host, and we went in to\nsupper.\n\nI was jolly hungry and would have made a good meal if I hadn\'t\nconstantly had to keep jogging my wits. The other two talked in\nGerman, and when a question was put to me Stumm translated. The first\nthing I had to do was to pretend I didn\'t know German and look\nlistlessly round the room while they were talking. The second was to\nmiss not a word, for there lay my chance. The third was to be ready to\nanswer questions at any moment, and to show in the answering that I had\nnot followed the previous conversation. Likewise, I must not prove\nmyself a fool in these answers, for I had to convince them that I was\nuseful. It took some doing, and I felt like a witness in the box under\na stiff cross-examination, or a man trying to play three games of chess\nat once.\n\nI heard Stumm telling Gaudian the gist of my plan. The engineer shook\nhis head.\n\n\'Too late,\' he said. \'It should have been done at the beginning. We\nneglected Africa. You know the reason why.\'\n\nStumm laughed. \'The von Einem! Perhaps, but her charm works well\nenough.\'\n\nGaudian glanced towards me while I was busy with an orange salad. \'I\nhave much to tell you of that. But it can wait. Your friend is right\nin one thing. Uganda is a vital spot for the English, and a blow there\nwill make their whole fabric shiver. But how can we strike? They have\nstill the coast, and our supplies grow daily smaller.\'\n\n\'We can send no reinforcements, but have we used all the local\nresources? That is what I cannot satisfy myself about. Zimmerman says\nwe have, but Tressler thinks differently, and now we have this fellow\ncoming out of the void with a story which confirms my doubt. He seems\nto know his job. You try him.\'\n\nThereupon Gaudian set about questioning me, and his questions were very\nthorough. I knew just enough and no more to get through, but I think I\ncame out with credit. You see I have a capacious memory, and in my\ntime I had met scores of hunters and pioneers and listened to their\nyarns, so I could pretend to knowledge of a place even when I hadn\'t\nbeen there. Besides, I had once been on the point of undertaking a job\nup Tanganyika way, and I had got up that country-side pretty accurately.\n\n\'You say that with our help you can make trouble for the British on the\nthree borders?\' Gaudian asked at length.\n\n\'I can spread the fire if some one else will kindle it,\' I said.\n\n\'But there are thousands of tribes with no affinities.\'\n\n\'They are all African. You can bear me out. All African peoples are\nalike in one thing--they can go mad, and the madness of one infects the\nothers. The English know this well enough.\'\n\n\'Where would you start the fire?\' he asked.\n\n\'Where the fuel is dryest. Up in the North among the Mussulman\npeoples. But there you must help me. I know nothing about Islam, and\nI gather that you do.\'\n\n\'Why?\' he asked.\n\n\'Because of what you have done already,\' I answered.\n\nStumm had translated all this time, and had given the sense of my words\nvery fairly. But with my last answer he took liberties. What he gave\nwas: \'Because the Dutchman thinks that we have some big card in dealing\nwith the Moslem world.\' Then, lowering his voice and raising his\neyebrows, he said some word like \'Uhnmantl\'.\n\nThe other looked with a quick glance of apprehension at me. \'We had\nbetter continue our talk in private, Herr Colonel,\' he said. \'If Herr\nBrandt will forgive us, we will leave him for a little to entertain\nhimself.\' He pushed the cigar-box towards me and the two got up and\nleft the room.\n\nI pulled my chair up to the stove, and would have liked to drop off to\nsleep. The tension of the talk at supper had made me very tired. I\nwas accepted by these men for exactly what I professed to be. Stumm\nmight suspect me of being a rascal, but it was a Dutch rascal. But all\nthe same I was skating on thin ice. I could not sink myself utterly in\nthe part, for if I did I would get no good out of being there. I had\nto keep my wits going all the time, and join the appearance and manners\nof a backveld Boer with the mentality of a British\nintelligence-officer. Any moment the two parts might clash and I would\nbe faced with the most alert and deadly suspicion.\n\nThere would be no mercy from Stumm. That large man was beginning to\nfascinate me, even though I hated him. Gaudian was clearly a good\nfellow, a white man and a gentleman. I could have worked with him for\nhe belonged to my own totem. But the other was an incarnation of all\nthat makes Germany detested, and yet he wasn\'t altogether the ordinary\nGerman, and I couldn\'t help admiring him. I noticed he neither smoked\nnor drank. His grossness was apparently not in the way of fleshly\nappetites. Cruelty, from all I had heard of him in German South West,\nwas his hobby; but there were other things in him, some of them good,\nand he had that kind of crazy patriotism which becomes a religion. I\nwondered why he had not some high command in the field, for he had had\nthe name of a good soldier. But probably he was a big man in his own\nline, whatever it was, for the Under-Secretary fellow had talked small\nin his presence, and so great a man as Gaudian clearly respected him.\nThere must be no lack of brains inside that funny pyramidal head.\n\nAs I sat beside the stove I was casting back to think if I had got the\nslightest clue to my real job. There seemed to be nothing so far.\nStumm had talked of a von Einem woman who was interested in his\ndepartment, perhaps the same woman as the Hilda he had mentioned the\nday before to the Under-Secretary. There was not much in that. She\nwas probably some minister\'s or ambassador\'s wife who had a finger in\nhigh politics. If I could have caught the word Stumm had whispered to\nGaudian which made him start and look askance at me! But I had only\nheard a gurgle of something like \'Uhnmantl\', which wasn\'t any German\nword that I knew.\n\nThe heat put me into a half-doze and I began dreamily to wonder what\nother people were doing. Where had Blenkiron been posting to in that\ntrain, and what was he up to at this moment? He had been hobnobbing\nwith ambassadors and swells--I wondered if he had found out anything.\nWhat was Peter doing? I fervently hoped he was behaving himself, for I\ndoubted if Peter had really tumbled to the delicacy of our job. Where\nwas Sandy, too? As like as not bucketing in the hold of some Greek\ncoaster in the Aegean. Then I thought of my battalion somewhere on the\nline between Hulluch and La Bassee, hammering at the Boche, while I was\nfive hundred miles or so inside the Boche frontier.\n\nIt was a comic reflection, so comic that it woke me up. After trying\nin vain to find a way of stoking that stove, for it was a cold night, I\ngot up and walked about the room. There were portraits of two decent\nold fellows, probably Gaudian\'s parents. There were enlarged\nphotographs, too, of engineering works, and a good picture of Bismarck.\nAnd close to the stove there was a case of maps mounted on rollers.\n\nI pulled out one at random. It was a geological map of Germany, and\nwith some trouble I found out where I was. I was an enormous distance\nfrom my goal and moreover I was clean off the road to the East. To go\nthere I must first go to Bavaria and then into Austria. I noticed the\nDanube flowing eastwards and remembered that that was one way to\nConstantinople.\n\nThen I tried another map. This one covered a big area, all Europe from\nthe Rhine and as far east as Persia. I guessed that it was meant to\nshow the Baghdad railway and the through routes from Germany to\nMesopotamia. There were markings on it; and, as I looked closer, I saw\nthat there were dates scribbled in blue pencil, as if to denote the\nstages of a journey. The dates began in Europe, and continued right on\ninto Asia Minor and then south to Syria.\n\nFor a moment my heart jumped, for I thought I had fallen by accident on\nthe clue I wanted. But I never got that map examined. I heard\nfootsteps in the corridor, and very gently I let the map roll up and\nturned away. When the door opened I was bending over the stove trying\nto get a light for my pipe.\n\nIt was Gaudian, to bid me join him and Stumm in his study.\n\nOn our way there he put a kindly hand on my shoulder. I think he\nthought I was bullied by Stumm and wanted to tell me that he was my\nfriend, and he had no other language than a pat on the back.\n\nThe soldier was in his old position with his elbows on the mantelpiece\nand his formidable great jaw stuck out.\n\n\'Listen to me,\' he said. \'Herr Gaudian and I are inclined to make use\nof you. You may be a charlatan, in which case you will be in the devil\nof a mess and have yourself to thank for it. If you are a rogue you\nwill have little scope for roguery. We will see to that. If you are a\nfool, you will yourself suffer for it. But if you are a good man, you\nwill have a fair chance, and if you succeed we will not forget it.\nTomorrow I go home and you will come with me and get your orders.\'\n\nI made shift to stand at attention and salute.\n\nGaudian spoke in a pleasant voice, as if he wanted to atone for Stumm\'s\nimperiousness. \'We are men who love our Fatherland, Herr Brandt,\' he\nsaid. \'You are not of that Fatherland, but at least you hate its\nenemies. Therefore we are allies, and trust each other like allies.\nOur victory is ordained by God, and we are none of us more than His\ninstruments.\'\n\nStumm translated in a sentence, and his voice was quite solemn. He held\nup his right hand and so did Gaudian, like a man taking an oath or a\nparson blessing his congregation.\n\nThen I realized something of the might of Germany. She produced good\nand bad, cads and gentlemen, but she could put a bit of the fanatic\ninto them all.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nThe Indiscretions of the Same\n\nI was standing stark naked next morning in that icy bedroom, trying to\nbathe in about a quart of water, when Stumm entered. He strode up to\nme and stared me in the face. I was half a head shorter than him to\nbegin with, and a man does not feel his stoutest when he has no\nclothes, so he had the pull on me every way.\n\n\'I have reason to believe that you are a liar,\' he growled.\n\nI pulled the bed-cover round me, for I was shivering with cold, and the\nGerman idea of a towel is a pocket-handkerchief. I own I was in a\npretty blue funk.\n\n\'A liar!\' he repeated. \'You and that swine Pienaar.\'\n\nWith my best effort at surliness I asked what we had done.\n\n\'You lied, because you said you know no German. Apparently your friend\nknows enough to talk treason and blasphemy.\'\n\nThis gave me back some heart.\n\n\'I told you I knew a dozen words. But I told you Peter could talk it a\nbit. I told you that yesterday at the station.\' Fervently I blessed\nmy luck for that casual remark.\n\nHe evidently remembered, for his tone became a trifle more civil.\n\n\'You are a precious pair. If one of you is a scoundrel, why not the\nother?\'\n\n\'I take no responsibility for Peter,\' I said. I felt I was a cad in\nsaying it, but that was the bargain we had made at the start. \'I have\nknown him for years as a great hunter and a brave man. I knew he\nfought well against the English. But more I cannot tell you. You have\nto judge him for yourself. What has he done?\'\n\nI was told, for Stumm had got it that morning on the telephone. While\ntelling it he was kind enough to allow me to put on my trousers.\n\nIt was just the sort of thing I might have foreseen. Peter, left\nalone, had become first bored and then reckless. He had persuaded the\nlieutenant to take him out to supper at a big Berlin restaurant. There,\ninspired by the lights and music--novel things for a backveld\nhunter--and no doubt bored stiff by his company, he had proceeded to\nget drunk. That had happened in my experience with Peter about once in\nevery three years, and it always happened for the same reason. Peter,\nbored and solitary in a town, went on the spree. He had a head like a\nrock, but he got to the required condition by wild mixing. He was\nquite a gentleman in his cups, and not in the least violent, but he was\napt to be very free with his tongue. And that was what occurred at the\nFranciscana.\n\nHe had begun by insulting the Emperor, it seemed. He drank his health,\nbut said he reminded him of a wart-hog, and thereby scarified the\nlieutenant\'s soul. Then an officer--some tremendous swell at an\nadjoining table had objected to his talking so loud, and Peter had\nreplied insolently in respectable German. After that things became\nmixed. There was some kind of a fight, during which Peter calumniated\nthe German army and all its female ancestry. How he wasn\'t shot or run\nthrough I can\'t imagine, except that the lieutenant loudly proclaimed\nthat he was a crazy Boer. Anyhow the upshot was that Peter was marched\noff to gaol, and I was left in a pretty pickle.\n\n\'I don\'t believe a word of it,\' I said firmly. I had most of my\nclothes on now and felt more courageous. \'It is all a plot to get him\ninto disgrace and draft him off to the front.\'\n\nStumm did not storm as I expected, but smiled.\n\n\'That was always his destiny,\' he said, \'ever since I saw him. He was\nno use to us except as a man with a rifle. Cannon-fodder, nothing\nelse. Do you imagine, you fool, that this great Empire in the thick of\na world-war is going to trouble its head to lay snares for an ignorant\n_traakhaar_?\'\n\n\'I wash my hands of him,\' I said. \'If what you say of his folly is\ntrue I have no part in it. But he was my companion and I wish him\nwell. What do you propose to do with him?\'\n\n\'We will keep him under our eye,\' he said, with a wicked twist of the\nmouth. \'I have a notion that there is more at the back of this than\nappears. We will investigate the antecedents of Herr Pienaar. And you,\ntoo, my friend. On you also we have our eye.\'\n\nI did the best thing I could have done, for what with anxiety and\ndisgust I lost my temper.\n\n\'Look here, Sir,\' I cried, \'I\'ve had about enough of this. I came to\nGermany abominating the English and burning to strike a blow for you.\nBut you haven\'t given me much cause to love you. For the last two days\nI\'ve had nothing from you but suspicion and insult. The only decent man\nI\'ve met is Herr Gaudian. It\'s because I believe that there are many\nin Germany like him that I\'m prepared to go on with this business and\ndo the best I can. But, by God, I wouldn\'t raise my little finger for\nyour sake.\'\n\nHe looked at me very steadily for a minute. \'That sounds like\nhonesty,\' he said at last in a civil voice. \'You had better come down\nand get your coffee.\'\n\nI was safe for the moment but in very low spirits. What on earth would\nhappen to poor old Peter? I could do nothing even if I wanted, and,\nbesides, my first duty was to my mission. I had made this very clear\nto him at Lisbon and he had agreed, but all the same it was a beastly\nreflection. Here was that ancient worthy left to the tender mercies of\nthe people he most detested on earth. My only comfort was that they\ncouldn\'t do very much with him. If they sent him to the front, which\nwas the worst they could do, he would escape, for I would have backed\nhim to get through any mortal lines. It wasn\'t much fun for me either.\nOnly when I was to be deprived of it did I realize how much his company\nhad meant to me. I was absolutely alone now, and I didn\'t like it. I\nseemed to have about as much chance of joining Blenkiron and Sandy as\nof flying to the moon.\n\nAfter breakfast I was told to get ready. When I asked where I was\ngoing Stumm advised me to mind my own business, but I remembered that\nlast night he had talked of taking me home with him and giving me my\norders. I wondered where his home was.\n\nGaudian patted me on the back when we started and wrung my hand. He\nwas a capital good fellow, and it made me feel sick to think that I was\nhumbugging him. We got into the same big grey car, with Stumm\'s\nservant sitting beside the chauffeur. It was a morning of hard frost,\nthe bare fields were white with rime, and the fir-trees powdered like a\nwedding-cake. We took a different road from the night before, and\nafter a run of half a dozen miles came to a little town with a big\nrailway station. It was a junction on some main line, and after five\nminutes\' waiting we found our train. Once again we were alone in the\ncarriage. Stumm must have had some colossal graft, for the train was\ncrowded.\n\nI had another three hours of complete boredom. I dared not smoke, and\ncould do nothing but stare out of the window. We soon got into hilly\ncountry, where a good deal of snow was lying. It was the 23rd day of\nDecember, and even in war time one had a sort of feel of Christmas.\nYou could see girls carrying evergreens, and when we stopped at a\nstation the soldiers on leave had all the air of holiday making. The\nmiddle of Germany was a cheerier place than Berlin or the western\nparts. I liked the look of the old peasants, and the women in their\nneat Sunday best, but I noticed, too, how pinched they were. Here in\nthe country, where no neutral tourists came, there was not the same\nstage-management as in the capital.\n\nStumm made an attempt to talk to me on the journey. I could see his\naim. Before this he had cross-examined me, but now he wanted to draw\nme into ordinary conversation. He had no notion how to do it. He was\neither peremptory and provocative, like a drill-sergeant, or so\nobviously diplomatic that any fool would have been put on his guard.\nThat is the weakness of the German. He has no gift for laying himself\nalongside different types of men. He is such a hard-shell being that\nhe cannot put out feelers to his kind. He may have plenty of brains, as\nStumm had, but he has the poorest notion of psychology of any of God\'s\ncreatures. In Germany only the Jew can get outside himself, and that\nis why, if you look into the matter, you will find that the Jew is at\nthe back of most German enterprises.\n\nAfter midday we stopped at a station for luncheon. We had a very good\nmeal in the restaurant, and when we were finishing two officers\nentered. Stumm got up and saluted and went aside to talk to them.\nThen he came back and made me follow him to a waiting-room, where he\ntold me to stay till he fetched me. I noticed that he called a porter\nand had the door locked when he went out.\n\nIt was a chilly place with no fire, and I kicked my heels there for\ntwenty minutes. I was living by the hour now, and did not trouble to\nworry about this strange behaviour. There was a volume of time-tables\non a shelf, and I turned the pages idly till I struck a big railway\nmap. Then it occurred to me to find out where we were going. I had\nheard Stumm take my ticket for a place called Schwandorf, and after a\nlot of searching I found it. It was away south in Bavaria, and so far\nas I could make out less than fifty miles from the Danube. That\ncheered me enormously. If Stumm lived there he would most likely start\nme off on my travels by the railway which I saw running to Vienna and\nthen on to the East. It looked as if I might get to Constantinople\nafter all. But I feared it would be a useless achievement, for what\ncould I do when I got there? I was being hustled out of Germany\nwithout picking up the slenderest clue.\n\nThe door opened and Stumm entered. He seemed to have got bigger in the\ninterval and to carry his head higher. There was a proud light, too,\nin his eye.\n\n\'Brandt,\' he said, \'you are about to receive the greatest privilege\nthat ever fell to one of your race. His Imperial Majesty is passing\nthrough here, and has halted for a few minutes. He has done me the\nhonour to receive me, and when he heard my story he expressed a wish to\nsee you. You will follow me to his presence. Do not be afraid. The\nAll-Highest is merciful and gracious. Answer his questions like a man.\'\n\nI followed him with a quickened pulse. Here was a bit of luck I had\nnever dreamed of. At the far side of the station a train had drawn up,\na train consisting of three big coaches, chocolate-coloured and picked\nout with gold. On the platform beside it stood a small group of\nofficers, tall men in long grey-blue cloaks. They seemed to be mostly\nelderly, and one or two of the faces I thought I remembered from\nphotographs in the picture papers.\n\nAs we approached they drew apart, and left us face to face with one\nman. He was a little below middle height, and all muffled in a thick\ncoat with a fur collar. He wore a silver helmet with an eagle atop of\nit, and kept his left hand resting on his sword. Below the helmet was\na face the colour of grey paper, from which shone curious sombre\nrestless eyes with dark pouches beneath them. There was no fear of my\nmistaking him. These were the features which, since Napoleon, have\nbeen best known to the world.\n\nI stood as stiff as a ramrod and saluted. I was perfectly cool and\nmost desperately interested. For such a moment I would have gone\nthrough fire and water.\n\n\'Majesty, this is the Dutchman I spoke of,\' I heard Stumm say.\n\n\'What language does he speak?\' the Emperor asked.\n\n\'Dutch,\' was the reply; \'but being a South African he also speaks\nEnglish.\'\n\nA spasm of pain seemed to flit over the face before me. Then he\naddressed me in English.\n\n\'You have come from a land which will yet be our ally to offer your\nsword to our service? I accept the gift and hail it as a good omen. I\nwould have given your race its freedom, but there were fools and\ntraitors among you who misjudged me. But that freedom I shall yet give\nyou in spite of yourselves. Are there many like you in your country?\'\n\n\'There are thousands, sire,\' I said, lying cheerfully. \'I am one of\nmany who think that my race\'s life lies in your victory. And I think\nthat that victory must be won not in Europe alone. In South Africa for\nthe moment there is no chance, so we look to other parts of the\ncontinent. You will win in Europe. You have won in the East, and it\nnow remains to strike the English where they cannot fend the blow. If\nwe take Uganda, Egypt will fall. By your permission I go there to make\ntrouble for your enemies.\'\n\nA flicker of a smile passed over the worn face. It was the face of one\nwho slept little and whose thoughts rode him like a nightmare. \'That is\nwell,\' he said. \'Some Englishman once said that he would call in the\nNew World to redress the balance of the Old. We Germans will summon\nthe whole earth to suppress the infamies of England. Serve us well,\nand you will not be forgotten.\' Then he suddenly asked: \'Did you fight\nin the last South African War?\'\n\n\'Yes, Sir,\' I said. \'I was in the commando of that Smuts who has now\nbeen bought by England.\'\n\n\'What were your countrymen\'s losses?\' he asked eagerly.\n\nI did not know, but I hazarded a guess. \'In the field some twenty\nthousand. But many more by sickness and in the accursed prison-camps\nof the English.\'\n\nAgain a spasm of pain crossed his face.\n\n\'Twenty thousand,\' he repeated huskily. \'A mere handful. Today we\nlose as many in a skirmish in the Polish marshes.\'\n\nThen he broke out fiercely. \'I did not seek the war ... It was forced\non me ... I laboured for peace ... The blood of millions is on the\nheads of England and Russia, but England most of all. God will yet\navenge it. He that takes the sword will perish by the sword. Mine was\nforced from the scabbard in self-defence, and I am guiltless. Do they\nknow that among your people?\'\n\n\'All the world knows it, sire,\' I said.\n\nHe gave his hand to Stumm and turned away. The last I saw of him was a\nfigure moving like a sleep-walker, with no spring in his step, amid his\ntall suite. I felt that I was looking on at a far bigger tragedy than\nany I had seen in action. Here was one that had loosed Hell, and the\nfuries of Hell had got hold of him. He was no common man, for in his\npresence I felt an attraction which was not merely the mastery of one\nused to command. That would not have impressed me, for I had never\nowned a master. But here was a human being who, unlike Stumm and his\nkind, had the power of laying himself alongside other men. That was\nthe irony of it. Stumm would not have cared a tinker\'s curse for all\nthe massacres in history. But this man, the chief of a nation of\nStumms, paid the price in war for the gifts that had made him\nsuccessful in peace. He had imagination and nerves, and the one was\nwhite hot and the others were quivering. I would not have been in his\nshoes for the throne of the Universe ...\n\n\nAll afternoon we sped southward, mostly in a country of hills and\nwooded valleys. Stumm, for him, was very pleasant. His imperial\nmaster must have been gracious to him, and he passed a bit of it on to\nme. But he was anxious to see that I had got the right impression.\n\n\'The All-Highest is merciful, as I told you,\' he said.\n\nI agreed with him.\n\n\'Mercy is the prerogative of kings,\' he said sententiously, \'but for us\nlesser folks it is a trimming we can well do without.\'\n\nI nodded my approval.\n\n\'I am not merciful,\' he went on, as if I needed telling that. \'If any\nman stands in my way I trample the life out of him. That is the German\nfashion. That is what has made us great. We do not make war with\nlavender gloves and fine phrases, but with hard steel and hard brains.\nWe Germans will cure the green-sickness of the world. The nations rise\nagainst us. Pouf! They are soft flesh, and flesh cannot resist iron.\nThe shining ploughshare will cut its way through acres of mud.\'\n\nI hastened to add that these were also my opinions.\n\n\'What the hell do your opinions matter? You are a thick-headed boor of\nthe veld ... Not but what,\' he added, \'there is metal in you slow\nDutchmen once we Germans have had the forging of it!\'\n\n\nThe winter evening closed in, and I saw that we had come out of the\nhills and were in flat country. Sometimes a big sweep of river showed,\nand, looking out at one station I saw a funny church with a thing like\nan onion on top of its spire. It might almost have been a mosque,\njudging from the pictures I remembered of mosques. I wished to heaven\nI had given geography more attention in my time.\n\nPresently we stopped, and Stumm led the way out. The train must have\nbeen specially halted for him, for it was a one-horse little place\nwhose name I could not make out. The station-master was waiting,\nbowing and saluting, and outside was a motor-car with big head-lights.\nNext minute we were sliding through dark woods where the snow lay far\ndeeper than in the north. There was a mild frost in the air, and the\ntyres slipped and skidded at the corners.\n\nWe hadn\'t far to go. We climbed a little hill and on the top of it\nstopped at the door of a big black castle. It looked enormous in the\nwinter night, with not a light showing anywhere on its front. The door\nwas opened by an old fellow who took a long time about it and got well\ncursed for his slowness. Inside the place was very noble and ancient.\nStumm switched on the electric light, and there was a great hall with\nblack tarnished portraits of men and women in old-fashioned clothes, and\nmighty horns of deer on the walls.\n\nThere seemed to be no superfluity of servants. The old fellow said\nthat food was ready, and without more ado we went into the\ndining-room--another vast chamber with rough stone walls above the\npanelling--and found some cold meats on the table beside a big fire.\nThe servant presently brought in a ham omelette, and on that and the\ncold stuff we dined. I remember there was nothing to drink but water.\nIt puzzled me how Stumm kept his great body going on the very moderate\namount of food he ate. He was the type you expect to swill beer by the\nbucket and put away a pie in a sitting.\n\nWhen we had finished, he rang for the old man and told him that we\nshould be in the study for the rest of the evening. \'You can lock up\nand go to bed when you like,\' he said, \'but see you have coffee ready\nat seven sharp in the morning.\'\n\nEver since I entered that house I had the uncomfortable feeling of\nbeing in a prison. Here was I alone in this great place with a fellow\nwho could, and would, wring my neck if he wanted. Berlin and all the\nrest of it had seemed comparatively open country; I had felt that I\ncould move freely and at the worst make a bolt for it. But here I was\ntrapped, and I had to tell myself every minute that I was there as a\nfriend and colleague. The fact is, I was afraid of Stumm, and I don\'t\nmind admitting it. He was a new thing in my experience and I didn\'t\nlike it. If only he had drunk and guzzled a bit I should have been\nhappier.\n\nWe went up a staircase to a room at the end of a long corridor. Stumm\nlocked the door behind him and laid the key on the table. That room\ntook my breath away, it was so unexpected. In place of the grim\nbareness of downstairs here was a place all luxury and colour and\nlight. It was very large, but low in the ceiling, and the walls were\nfull of little recesses with statues in them. A thick grey carpet of\nvelvet pile covered the floor, and the chairs were low and soft and\nupholstered like a lady\'s boudoir. A pleasant fire burned on the\nhearth and there was a flavour of scent in the air, something like\nincense or burnt sandalwood. A French clock on the mantelpiece told me\nthat it was ten minutes past eight. Everywhere on little tables and in\ncabinets was a profusion of knickknacks, and there was some beautiful\nembroidery framed on screens. At first sight you would have said it\nwas a woman\'s drawing-room.\n\nBut it wasn\'t. I soon saw the difference. There had never been a\nwoman\'s hand in that place. It was the room of a man who had a passion\nfor frippery, who had a perverted taste for soft delicate things. It\nwas the complement to his bluff brutality. I began to see the queer\nother side to my host, that evil side which gossip had spoken of as not\nunknown in the German army. The room seemed a horribly unwholesome\nplace, and I was more than ever afraid of Stumm.\n\nThe hearthrug was a wonderful old Persian thing, all faint greens and\npinks. As he stood on it he looked uncommonly like a bull in a\nchina-shop. He seemed to bask in the comfort of it, and sniffed like a\nsatisfied animal. Then he sat down at an escritoire, unlocked a drawer\nand took out some papers.\n\n\'We will now settle your business, friend Brandt,\' he said. \'You will\ngo to Egypt and there take your orders from one whose name and address\nare in this envelope. This card,\' and he lifted a square piece of grey\npasteboard with a big stamp at the corner and some code words\nstencilled on it, \'will be your passport. You will show it to the man\nyou seek. Keep it jealously, and never use it save under orders or in\nthe last necessity. It is your badge as an accredited agent of the\nGerman Crown.\'\n\nI took the card and the envelope and put them in my pocket-book.\n\n\'Where do I go after Egypt?\' I asked.\n\n\'That remains to be seen. Probably you will go up the Blue Nile. Riza,\nthe man you will meet, will direct you. Egypt is a nest of our agents\nwho work peacefully under the nose of the English Secret Service.\'\n\n\'I am willing,\' I said. \'But how do I reach Egypt?\'\n\n\'You will travel by Holland and London. Here is your route,\' and he\ntook a paper from his pocket. \'Your passports are ready and will be\ngiven you at the frontier.\'\n\nThis was a pretty kettle of fish. I was to be packed off to Cairo by\nsea, which would take weeks, and God knows how I would get from Egypt\nto Constantinople. I saw all my plans falling to pieces about my ears,\nand just when I thought they were shaping nicely.\n\nStumm must have interpreted the look on my face as fear.\n\n\'You have no cause to be afraid,\' he said. \'We have passed the word to\nthe English police to look out for a suspicious South African named\nBrandt, one of Maritz\'s rebels. It is not difficult to have that kind\nof a hint conveyed to the proper quarter. But the description will not\nbe yours. Your name will be Van der Linden, a respectable Java\nmerchant going home to his plantations after a visit to his native\nshores. You had better get your _dossier_ by heart, but I guarantee\nyou will be asked no questions. We manage these things well in\nGermany.\'\n\nI kept my eyes on the fire, while I did some savage thinking. I knew\nthey would not let me out of their sight till they saw me in Holland,\nand, once there, there would be no possibility of getting back. When I\nleft this house I would have no chance of giving them the slip. And\nyet I was well on my way to the East, the Danube could not be fifty\nmiles off, and that way ran the road to Constantinople. It was a\nfairly desperate position. If I tried to get away Stumm would prevent\nme, and the odds were that I would go to join Peter in some infernal\nprison-camp.\n\nThose moments were some of the worst I ever spent. I was absolutely\nand utterly baffled, like a rat in a trap. There seemed nothing for it\nbut to go back to London and tell Sir Walter the game was up. And that\nwas about as bitter as death.\n\nHe saw my face and laughed. \'Does your heart fail you, my little\nDutchman? You funk the English? I will tell you one thing for your\ncomfort. There is nothing in the world to be feared except me. Fail,\nand you have cause to shiver. Play me false and you had far better\nnever have been born.\'\n\nHis ugly sneering face was close above mine. Then he put out his hands\nand gripped my shoulders as he had done the first afternoon.\n\nI forget if I mentioned that part of the damage I got at Loos was a\nshrapnel bullet low down at the back of my neck. The wound had healed\nwell enough, but I had pains there on a cold day. His fingers found\nthe place and it hurt like hell.\n\nThere is a very narrow line between despair and black rage. I had\nabout given up the game, but the sudden ache of my shoulders gave me\npurpose again. He must have seen the rage in my eyes, for his own\nbecame cruel.\n\n\'The weasel would like to bite,\' he cried. \'But the poor weasel has\nfound its master. Stand still, vermin. Smile, look pleasant, or I\nwill make pulp of you. Do you dare to frown at me?\'\n\nI shut my teeth and said never a word. I was choking in my throat and\ncould not have uttered a syllable if I had tried.\n\nThen he let me go, grinning like an ape.\n\nI stepped back a pace and gave him my left between the eyes.\n\nFor a second he did not realize what had happened, for I don\'t suppose\nanyone had dared to lift a hand to him since he was a child. He\nblinked at me mildly. Then his face grew as red as fire.\n\n\'God in heaven,\' he said quietly. \'I am going to kill you,\' and he\nflung himself on me like a mountain.\n\nI was expecting him and dodged the attack. I was quite calm now, but\npretty helpless. The man had a gorilla\'s reach and could give me at\nleast a couple of stone. He wasn\'t soft either, but looked as hard as\ngranite. I was only just from hospital and absurdly out of training.\nHe would certainly kill me if he could, and I saw nothing to prevent\nhim.\n\nMy only chance was to keep him from getting to grips, for he could have\nsqueezed in my ribs in two seconds. I fancied I was lighter on my legs\nthan him, and I had a good eye. Black Monty at Kimberley had taught me\nto fight a bit, but there is no art on earth which can prevent a big\nman in a narrow space from sooner or later cornering a lesser one.\nThat was the danger.\n\nBackwards and forwards we padded on the soft carpet. He had no notion\nof guarding himself, and I got in a good few blows.\n\nThen I saw a queer thing. Every time I hit him he blinked and seemed\nto pause. I guessed the reason for that. He had gone through life\nkeeping the crown of the causeway, and nobody had ever stood up to him.\nHe wasn\'t a coward by a long chalk, but he was a bully, and had never\nbeen struck in his life. He was getting struck now in real earnest,\nand he didn\'t like it. He had lost his bearings and was growing as mad\nas a hatter.\n\nI kept half an eye on the clock. I was hopeful now, and was looking\nfor the right kind of chance. The risk was that I might tire sooner\nthan him and be at his mercy.\n\nThen I learned a truth I have never forgotten. If you are fighting a\nman who means to kill you, he will be apt to down you unless you mean\nto kill him too. Stumm did not know any rules to this game, and I\nforgot to allow for that. Suddenly, when I was watching his eyes, he\nlaunched a mighty kick at my stomach. If he had got me, this yarn\nwould have had an abrupt ending. But by the mercy of God I was moving\nsideways when he let out, and his heavy boot just grazed my left thigh.\n\nIt was the place where most of the shrapnel had lodged, and for a\nsecond I was sick with pain and stumbled. Then I was on my feet again\nbut with a new feeling in my blood. I had to smash Stumm or never\nsleep in my bed again.\n\nI got a wonderful power from this new cold rage of mine. I felt I\ncouldn\'t tire, and I danced round and dotted his face till it was\nstreaming with blood. His bulky padded chest was no good to me, so I\ncouldn\'t try for the mark.\n\nHe began to snort now and his breath came heavily. \'You infernal cad,\'\nI said in good round English, \'I\'m going to knock the stuffing out of\nyou,\' but he didn\'t know what I was saying.\n\nThen at last he gave me my chance. He half tripped over a little table\nand his face stuck forward. I got him on the point of the chin, and\nput every ounce of weight I possessed behind the blow. He crumpled up\nin a heap and rolled over, upsetting a lamp and knocking a big china\njar in two. His head, I remember, lay under the escritoire from which\nhe had taken my passport.\n\nI picked up the key and unlocked the door. In one of the gilded\nmirrors I smoothed my hair and tidied up my clothes. My anger had\ncompletely gone and I had no particular ill-will left against Stumm.\nHe was a man of remarkable qualities, which would have brought him to\nthe highest distinction in the Stone Age. But for all that he and his\nkind were back numbers.\n\nI stepped out of the room, locked the door behind me, and started out\non the second stage of my travels.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nChristmastide\n\nEverything depended on whether the servant was in the hall. I had put\nStumm to sleep for a bit, but I couldn\'t flatter myself he would long\nbe quiet, and when he came to he would kick the locked door to\nmatchwood. I must get out of the house without a minute\'s delay, and\nif the door was shut and the old man gone to bed I was done.\n\nI met him at the foot of the stairs, carrying a candle.\n\n\'Your master wants me to send off an important telegram. Where is the\nnearest office? There\'s one in the village, isn\'t there?\' I spoke in\nmy best German, the first time I had used the tongue since I crossed\nthe frontier.\n\n\'The village is five minutes off at the foot of the avenue,\' he said.\n\'Will you be long, sir?\'\n\n\'I\'ll be back in a quarter of an hour,\' I said. \'Don\'t lock up till I\nget in.\'\n\nI put on my ulster and walked out into a clear starry night. My bag I\nleft lying on a settle in the hall. There was nothing in it to\ncompromise me, but I wished I could have got a toothbrush and some\ntobacco out of it.\n\nSo began one of the craziest escapades you can well imagine. I\ncouldn\'t stop to think of the future yet, but must take one step at a\ntime. I ran down the avenue, my feet cracking on the hard snow,\nplanning hard my programme for the next hour.\n\nI found the village--half a dozen houses with one biggish place that\nlooked like an inn. The moon was rising, and as I approached I saw\nthat there was some kind of a store. A funny little two-seated car was\npurring before the door, and I guessed this was also the telegraph\noffice.\n\nI marched in and told my story to a stout woman with spectacles on her\nnose who was talking to a young man.\n\n\'It is too late,\' she shook her head. \'The Herr Burgrave knows that\nwell. There is no connection from here after eight o\'clock. If the\nmatter is urgent you must go to Schwandorf.\'\n\n\'How far is that?\' I asked, looking for some excuse to get decently out\nof the shop.\n\n\'Seven miles,\' she said, \'but here is Franz and the post-wagon. Franz,\nyou will be glad to give the gentleman a seat beside you.\'\n\nThe sheepish-looking youth muttered something which I took to be\nassent, and finished off a glass of beer. From his eyes and manner he\nlooked as if he were half drunk.\n\nI thanked the woman, and went out to the car, for I was in a fever to\ntake advantage of this unexpected bit of luck. I could hear the\npost-mistress enjoining Franz not to keep the gentleman waiting, and\npresently he came out and flopped into the driver\'s seat. We started\nin a series of voluptuous curves, till his eyes got accustomed to the\ndarkness.\n\nAt first we made good going along the straight, broad highway lined\nwith woods on one side and on the other snowy fields melting into haze.\nThen he began to talk, and, as he talked, he slowed down. This by no\nmeans suited my book, and I seriously wondered whether I should pitch\nhim out and take charge of the thing. He was obviously a weakling,\nleft behind in the conscription, and I could have done it with one\nhand. But by a fortunate chance I left him alone.\n\n\'That is a fine hat of yours, mein Herr,\' he said. He took off his own\nblue peaked cap, the uniform, I suppose, of the driver of the\npost-wagon, and laid it on his knee. The night air ruffled a shock of\ntow-coloured hair.\n\nThen he calmly took my hat and clapped it on his head.\n\n\'With this thing I should be a gentleman,\' he said.\n\nI said nothing, but put on his cap and waited.\n\n\'That is a noble overcoat, mein Herr,\' he went on. \'It goes well with\nthe hat. It is the kind of garment I have always desired to own. In\ntwo days it will be the holy Christmas, when gifts are given. Would\nthat the good God sent me such a coat as yours!\'\n\n\'You can try it on to see how it looks,\' I said good-humouredly.\n\nHe stopped the car with a jerk, and pulled off his blue coat. The\nexchange was soon effected. He was about my height, and my ulster\nfitted not so badly. I put on his overcoat, which had a big collar\nthat buttoned round the neck.\n\nThe idiot preened himself like a girl. Drink and vanity had primed him\nfor any folly. He drove so carelessly for a bit that he nearly put us\ninto a ditch. We passed several cottages and at the last he slowed\ndown.\n\n\'A friend of mine lives here,\' he announced. \'Gertrud would like to\nsee me in the fine clothes which the most amiable Herr has given me.\nWait for me, I will not be long.\' And he scrambled out of the car and\nlurched into the little garden.\n\nI took his place and moved very slowly forward. I heard the door open\nand the sound of laughing and loud voices. Then it shut, and looking\nback I saw that my idiot had been absorbed into the dwelling of his\nGertrud. I waited no longer, but sent the car forward at its best\nspeed.\n\nFive minutes later the infernal thing began to give trouble--a nut\nloose in the antiquated steering-gear. I unhooked a lamp, examined it,\nand put the mischief right, but I was a quarter of an hour doing it.\nThe highway ran now in a thick forest and I noticed branches going off\nnow and then to the right. I was just thinking of turning up one of\nthem, for I had no anxiety to visit Schwandorf, when I heard behind me\nthe sound of a great car driven furiously.\n\nI drew in to the right side--thank goodness I remembered the rule of\nthe road--and proceeded decorously, wondering what was going to happen.\nI could hear the brakes being clamped on and the car slowing down.\nSuddenly a big grey bonnet slipped past me and as I turned my head I\nheard a familiar voice.\n\nIt was Stumm, looking like something that has been run over. He had his\njaw in a sling, so that I wondered if I had broken it, and his eyes\nwere beautifully bunged up. It was that that saved me, that and his\nraging temper. The collar of the postman\'s coat was round my chin,\nhiding my beard, and I had his cap pulled well down on my brow. I\nremembered what Blenkiron had said--that the only way to deal with the\nGermans was naked bluff. Mine was naked enough, for it was all that\nwas left to me.\n\n\'Where is the man you brought from Andersbach?\' he roared, as well as\nhis jaw would allow him.\n\nI pretended to be mortally scared, and spoke in the best imitation I\ncould manage of the postman\'s high cracked voice.\n\n\'He got out a mile back, Herr Burgrave,\' I quavered. \'He was a rude\nfellow who wanted to go to Schwandorf, and then changed his mind.\'\n\n\'Where, you fool? Say exactly where he got down or I will wring your\nneck.\'\n\n\'In the wood this side of Gertrud\'s cottage ... on the left hand. I\nleft him running among the trees.\' I put all the terror I knew into my\npipe, and it wasn\'t all acting.\n\n\'He means the Henrichs\' cottage, Herr Colonel,\' said the chauffeur.\n\'This man is courting the daughter.\'\n\nStumm gave an order and the great car backed, and, as I looked round, I\nsaw it turning. Then as it gathered speed it shot forward, and\npresently was lost in the shadows. I had got over the first hurdle.\n\nBut there was no time to be lost. Stumm would meet the postman and\nwould be tearing after me any minute. I took the first turning, and\nbucketed along a narrow woodland road. The hard ground would show very\nfew tracks, I thought, and I hoped the pursuit would think I had gone\non to Schwandorf. But it wouldn\'t do to risk it, and I was determined\nvery soon to get the car off the road, leave it, and take to the\nforest. I took out my watch and calculated I could give myself ten\nminutes.\n\nI was very nearly caught. Presently I came on a bit of rough heath,\nwith a slope away from the road and here and there a patch of black\nwhich I took to be a sandpit. Opposite one of these I slewed the car\nto the edge, got out, started it again and saw it pitch head-foremost\ninto the darkness. There was a splash of water and then silence.\nCraning over I could see nothing but murk, and the marks at the lip\nwhere the wheels had passed. They would find my tracks in daylight but\nscarcely at this time of night.\n\nThen I ran across the road to the forest. I was only just in time, for\nthe echoes of the splash had hardly died away when I heard the sound of\nanother car. I lay flat in a hollow below a tangle of snow-laden\nbrambles and looked between the pine-trees at the moonlit road. It was\nStumm\'s car again and to my consternation it stopped just a little\nshort of the sandpit.\n\nI saw an electric torch flashed, and Stumm himself got out and examined\nthe tracks on the highway. Thank God, they would be still there for\nhim to find, but had he tried half a dozen yards on he would have seen\nthem turn towards the sandpit. If that had happened he would have\nbeaten the adjacent woods and most certainly found me. There was a\nthird man in the car, with my hat and coat on him. That poor devil of\na postman had paid dear for his vanity.\n\nThey took a long time before they started again, and I was jolly well\nrelieved when they went scouring down the road. I ran deeper into the\nwoods till I found a track which--as I judged from the sky which I saw\nin a clearing--took me nearly due west. That wasn\'t the direction I\nwanted, so I bore off at right angles, and presently struck another\nroad which I crossed in a hurry. After that I got entangled in some\nconfounded kind of enclosure and had to climb paling after paling of\nrough stakes plaited with osiers. Then came a rise in the ground and I\nwas on a low hill of pines which seemed to last for miles. All the\ntime I was going at a good pace, and before I stopped to rest I\ncalculated I had put six miles between me and the sandpit.\n\nMy mind was getting a little more active now; for the first part of the\njourney I had simply staggered from impulse to impulse. These impulses\nhad been uncommon lucky, but I couldn\'t go on like that for ever. _Ek\nsal \'n plan maak_, says the old Boer when he gets into trouble, and it\nwas up to me now to make a plan.\n\nAs soon as I began to think I saw the desperate business I was in for.\nHere was I, with nothing except what I stood up in--including a coat\nand cap that weren\'t mine--alone in mid-winter in the heart of South\nGermany. There was a man behind me looking for my blood, and soon\nthere would be a hue-and-cry for me up and down the land. I had heard\nthat the German police were pretty efficient, and I couldn\'t see that I\nstood the slimmest chance. If they caught me they would shoot me\nbeyond doubt. I asked myself on what charge, and answered, \'For\nknocking about a German officer.\' They couldn\'t have me up for\nespionage, for as far as I knew they had no evidence. I was simply a\nDutchman that had got riled and had run amok. But if they cut down a\ncobbler for laughing at a second lieutenant--which is what happened at\nZabern--I calculated that hanging would be too good for a man that had\nbroken a colonel\'s jaw.\n\nTo make things worse my job was not to escape--though that would have\nbeen hard enough--but to get to Constantinople, more than a thousand\nmiles off, and I reckoned I couldn\'t get there as a tramp. I had to be\nsent there, and now I had flung away my chance. If I had been a\nCatholic I would have said a prayer to St Teresa, for she would have\nunderstood my troubles.\n\nMy mother used to say that when you felt down on your luck it was a\ngood cure to count your mercies. So I set about counting mine. The\nfirst was that I was well started on my journey, for I couldn\'t be\nabove two score miles from the Danube. The second was that I had\nStumm\'s pass. I didn\'t see how I could use it, but there it was.\nLastly I had plenty of money--fifty-three English sovereigns and the\nequivalent of three pounds in German paper which I had changed at the\nhotel. Also I had squared accounts with old Stumm. That was the\nbiggest mercy of all.\n\nI thought I\'d better get some sleep, so I found a dryish hole below an\noak root and squeezed myself into it. The snow lay deep in these woods\nand I was sopping wet up to the knees. All the same I managed to sleep\nfor some hours, and got up and shook myself just as the winter\'s dawn\nwas breaking through the tree tops. Breakfast was the next thing, and\nI must find some sort of dwelling.\n\nAlmost at once I struck a road, a big highway running north and south.\nI trotted along in the bitter morning to get my circulation started,\nand presently I began to feel a little better. In a little I saw a\nchurch spire, which meant a village. Stumm wouldn\'t be likely to have\ngot on my tracks yet, I calculated, but there was always the chance\nthat he had warned all the villages round by telephone and that they\nmight be on the look-out for me. But that risk had to be taken, for I\nmust have food.\n\nIt was the day before Christmas, I remembered, and people would be\nholidaying. The village was quite a big place, but at this hour--just\nafter eight o\'clock--there was nobody in the street except a wandering\ndog. I chose the most unassuming shop I could find, where a little boy\nwas taking down the shutters--one of those general stores where they\nsell everything. The boy fetched a very old woman, who hobbled in from\nthe back, fitting on her spectacles.\n\n\'Gruss Gott,\' she said in a friendly voice, and I took off my cap. I\nsaw from my reflection in a saucepan that I looked moderately\nrespectable in spite of my night in the woods.\n\nI told her the story of how I was walking from Schwandorf to see my\nmother at an imaginary place called Judenfeld, banking on the ignorance\nof villagers about any place five miles from their homes. I said my\nluggage had gone astray, and I hadn\'t time to wait for it, since my\nleave was short. The old lady was sympathetic and unsuspecting. She\nsold me a pound of chocolate, a box of biscuits, the better part of a\nham, two tins of sardines and a rucksack to carry them. I also bought\nsome soap, a comb and a cheap razor, and a small Tourists\' Guide,\npublished by a Leipzig firm. As I was leaving I saw what seemed like\ngarments hanging up in the back shop, and turned to have a look at\nthem. They were the kind of thing that Germans wear on their summer\nwalking tours--long shooting capes made of a green stuff they call\n_loden_. I bought one, and a green felt hat and an alpenstock to keep it\ncompany. Then wishing the old woman and her belongings a merry\nChristmas, I departed and took the shortest cut out of the village.\nThere were one or two people about now, but they did not seem to notice\nme.\n\nI went into the woods again and walked for two miles till I halted for\nbreakfast. I was not feeling quite so fit now, and I did not make much\nof my provisions, beyond eating a biscuit and some chocolate. I felt\nvery thirsty and longed for hot tea. In an icy pool I washed and with\ninfinite agony shaved my beard. That razor was the worst of its\nspecies, and my eyes were running all the time with the pain of the\noperation. Then I took off the postman\'s coat and cap, and buried them\nbelow some bushes. I was now a clean-shaven German pedestrian with a\ngreen cape and hat, and an absurd walking-stick with an iron-shod\nend--the sort of person who roams in thousands over the Fatherland in\nsummer, but is a rarish bird in mid-winter.\n\nThe Tourists\' Guide was a fortunate purchase, for it contained a big\nmap of Bavaria which gave me my bearings. I was certainly not forty\nmiles from the Danube--more like thirty. The road through the village\nI had left would have taken me to it. I had only to walk due south and\nI would reach it before night. So far as I could make out there were\nlong tongues of forest running down to the river, and I resolved to\nkeep to the woodlands. At the worst I would meet a forester or two,\nand I had a good enough story for them. On the highroad there might be\nawkward questions.\n\nWhen I started out again I felt very stiff and the cold seemed to be\ngrowing intense. This puzzled me, for I had not minded it much up to\nnow, and, being warm-blooded by nature, it never used to worry me. A\nsharp winter night on the high-veld was a long sight chillier than\nanything I had struck so far in Europe. But now my teeth were\nchattering and the marrow seemed to be freezing in my bones.\n\nThe day had started bright and clear, but a wrack of grey clouds soon\ncovered the sky, and a wind from the east began to whistle. As I\nstumbled along through the snowy undergrowth I kept longing for bright\nwarm places. I thought of those long days on the veld when the earth\nwas like a great yellow bowl, with white roads running to the horizon\nand a tiny white farm basking in the heart of it, with its blue dam and\npatches of bright green lucerne. I thought of those baking days on the\neast coast, when the sea was like mother-of-pearl and the sky one\nburning turquoise. But most of all I thought of warm scented noons on\ntrek, when one dozed in the shadow of the wagon and sniffed the\nwood-smoke from the fire where the boys were cooking dinner.\n\nFrom these pleasant pictures I returned to the beastly present--the\nthick snowy woods, the lowering sky, wet clothes, a hunted present, and\na dismal future. I felt miserably depressed, and I couldn\'t think of\nany mercies to count. It struck me that I might be falling sick.\n\nAbout midday I awoke with a start to the belief that I was being\npursued. I cannot explain how or why the feeling came, except that it\nis a kind of instinct that men get who have lived much in wild\ncountries. My senses, which had been numbed, suddenly grew keen, and\nmy brain began to work double quick.\n\nI asked myself what I would do if I were Stumm, with hatred in my\nheart, a broken jaw to avenge, and pretty well limitless powers. He\nmust have found the car in the sandpit and seen my tracks in the wood\nopposite. I didn\'t know how good he and his men might be at following\na spoor, but I knew that any ordinary Kaffir could have nosed it out\neasily. But he didn\'t need to do that. This was a civilized country\nfull of roads and railways. I must some time and somewhere come out of\nthe woods. He could have all the roads watched, and the telephone\nwould set everyone on my track within a radius of fifty miles.\nBesides, he would soon pick up my trail in the village I had visited\nthat morning. From the map I learned that it was called Greif, and it\nwas likely to live up to that name with me.\n\nPresently I came to a rocky knoll which rose out of the forest. Keeping\nwell in shelter I climbed to the top and cautiously looked around me.\nAway to the east I saw the vale of a river with broad fields and\nchurch-spires. West and south the forest rolled unbroken in a\nwilderness of snowy tree-tops. There was no sign of life anywhere, not\neven a bird, but I knew very well that behind me in the woods were men\nmoving swiftly on my track, and that it was pretty well impossible for\nme to get away.\n\nThere was nothing for it but to go on till I dropped or was taken. I\nshaped my course south with a shade of west in it, for the map showed\nme that in that direction I would soonest strike the Danube. What I\nwas going to do when I got there I didn\'t trouble to think. I had\nfixed the river as my immediate goal and the future must take care of\nitself.\n\nI was now certain that I had fever on me. It was still in my bones, as\na legacy from Africa, and had come out once or twice when I was with\nthe battalion in Hampshire. The bouts had been short for I had known\nof their coming and dosed myself. But now I had no quinine, and it\nlooked as if I were in for a heavy go. It made me feel desperately\nwretched and stupid, and I all but blundered into capture.\n\nFor suddenly I came on a road and was going to cross it blindly, when a\nman rode slowly past on a bicycle. Luckily I was in the shade of a\nclump of hollies and he was not looking my way, though he was not three\nyards off. I crawled forward to reconnoitre. I saw about half a mile\nof road running straight through the forest and every two hundred yards\nwas a bicyclist. They wore uniform and appeared to be acting as\nsentries.\n\nThis could only have one meaning. Stumm had picketed all the roads and\ncut me off in an angle of the woods. There was no chance of getting\nacross unobserved. As I lay there with my heart sinking, I had the\nhorrible feeling that the pursuit might be following me from behind,\nand that at any moment I would be enclosed between two fires.\n\nFor more than an hour I stayed there with my chin in the snow. I didn\'t\nsee any way out, and I was feeling so ill that I didn\'t seem to care.\nThen my chance came suddenly out of the skies.\n\nThe wind rose, and a great gust of snow blew from the east. In five\nminutes it was so thick that I couldn\'t see across the road. At first\nI thought it a new addition to my troubles, and then very slowly I saw\nthe opportunity. I slipped down the bank and made ready to cross.\n\nI almost blundered into one of the bicyclists. He cried out and fell\noff his machine, but I didn\'t wait to investigate. A sudden access of\nstrength came to me and I darted into the woods on the farther side. I\nknew I would be soon swallowed from sight in the drift, and I knew that\nthe falling snow would hide my tracks. So I put my best foot forward.\n\nI must have run miles before the hot fit passed, and I stopped from\nsheer bodily weakness. There was no sound except the crush of falling\nsnow, the wind seemed to have gone, and the place was very solemn and\nquiet. But Heavens! how the snow fell! It was partly screened by the\nbranches, but all the same it was piling itself up deep everywhere. My\nlegs seemed made of lead, my head burned, and there were fiery pains\nover all my body. I stumbled on blindly, without a notion of any\ndirection, determined only to keep going to the last. For I knew that\nif I once lay down I would never rise again.\n\nWhen I was a boy I was fond of fairy tales, and most of the stories I\nremembered had been about great German forests and snow and charcoal\nburners and woodmen\'s huts. Once I had longed to see these things, and\nnow I was fairly in the thick of them. There had been wolves, too, and\nI wondered idly if I should fall in with a pack. I felt myself getting\nlight-headed. I fell repeatedly and laughed sillily every time. Once\nI dropped into a hole and lay for some time at the bottom giggling. If\nanyone had found me then he would have taken me for a madman.\n\nThe twilight of the forest grew dimmer, but I scarcely noticed it.\nEvening was falling, and soon it would be night, a night without\nmorning for me. My body was going on without the direction of my\nbrain, for my mind was filled with craziness. I was like a drunk man\nwho keeps running, for he knows that if he stops he will fall, and I\nhad a sort of bet with myself not to lie down--not at any rate just\nyet. If I lay down I should feel the pain in my head worse. Once I had\nridden for five days down country with fever on me and the flat bush\ntrees had seemed to melt into one big mirage and dance quadrilles\nbefore my eyes. But then I had more or less kept my wits. Now I was\nfairly daft, and every minute growing dafter.\n\nThen the trees seemed to stop and I was walking on flat ground. It was\na clearing, and before me twinkled a little light. The change restored\nme to consciousness, and suddenly I felt with horrid intensity the fire\nin my head and bones and the weakness of my limbs. I longed to sleep,\nand I had a notion that a place to sleep was before me. I moved\ntowards the light and presently saw through a screen of snow the\noutline of a cottage.\n\nI had no fear, only an intolerable longing to lie down. Very slowly I\nmade my way to the door and knocked. My weakness was so great that I\ncould hardly lift my hand.\n\nThere were voices within, and a corner of the curtain was lifted from\nthe window. Then the door opened and a woman stood before me, a woman\nwith a thin, kindly face.\n\n\'Gruss Gott,\' she said, while children peeped from behind her skirts.\n\n\'Gruss Gott,\' I replied. I leaned against the door-post, and speech\nforsook me.\n\nShe saw my condition. \'Come in, sir,\' she said. \'You are sick and it\nis no weather for a sick man.\'\n\nI stumbled after her and stood dripping in the centre of the little\nkitchen, while three wondering children stared at me. It was a poor\nplace, scantily furnished, but a good log-fire burned on the hearth.\nThe shock of warmth gave me one of those minutes of self-possession\nwhich comes sometimes in the middle of a fever.\n\n\'I am sick, mother, and I have walked far in the storm and lost my way.\nI am from Africa, where the climate is hot, and your cold brings me\nfever. It will pass in a day or two if you can give me a bed.\'\n\n\'You are welcome,\' she said; \'but first I will make you coffee.\'\n\nI took off my dripping cloak, and crouched close to the hearth. She\ngave me coffee--poor washy stuff, but blessedly hot. Poverty was\nspelled large in everything I saw. I felt the tides of fever beginning\nto overflow my brain again, and I made a great attempt to set my\naffairs straight before I was overtaken. With difficulty I took out\nStumm\'s pass from my pocket-book.\n\n\'That is my warrant,\' I said. \'I am a member of the Imperial Secret\nService and for the sake of my work I must move in the dark. If you\nwill permit it, mother, I will sleep till I am better, but no one must\nknow that I am here. If anyone comes, you must deny my presence.\'\n\nShe looked at the big seal as if it were a talisman.\n\n\'Yes, yes,\' she said, \'you will have the bed in the garret and be left\nin peace till you are well. We have no neighbours near, and the storm\nwill shut the roads. I will be silent, I and the little ones.\'\n\nMy head was beginning to swim, but I made one more effort.\n\n\'There is food in my rucksack--biscuits and ham and chocolate. Pray\ntake it for your use. And here is some money to buy Christmas fare for\nthe little ones.\' And I gave her some of the German notes.\n\nAfter that my recollection becomes dim. She helped me up a ladder to\nthe garret, undressed me, and gave me a thick coarse nightgown. I seem\nto remember that she kissed my hand, and that she was crying. \'The\ngood Lord has sent you,\' she said. \'Now the little ones will have\ntheir prayers answered and the Christkind will not pass by our door.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nThe Essen Barges\n\nI lay for four days like a log in that garret bed. The storm died\ndown, the thaw set in, and the snow melted. The children played about\nthe doors and told stories at night round the fire. Stumm\'s myrmidons\nno doubt beset every road and troubled the lives of innocent wayfarers.\nBut no one came near the cottage, and the fever worked itself out while\nI lay in peace.\n\nIt was a bad bout, but on the fifth day it left me, and I lay, as weak\nas a kitten, staring at the rafters and the little skylight. It was a\nleaky, draughty old place, but the woman of the cottage had heaped\ndeerskins and blankets on my bed and kept me warm. She came in now and\nthen, and once she brought me a brew of some bitter herbs which greatly\nrefreshed me. A little thin porridge was all the food I could eat, and\nsome chocolate made from the slabs in my rucksack.\n\nI lay and dozed through the day, hearing the faint chatter of children\nbelow, and getting stronger hourly. Malaria passes as quickly as it\ncomes and leaves a man little the worse, though this was one of the\nsharpest turns I ever had. As I lay I thought, and my thoughts\nfollowed curious lines. One queer thing was that Stumm and his doings\nseemed to have been shot back into a lumber-room of my brain and the\ndoor locked. He didn\'t seem to be a creature of the living present,\nbut a distant memory on which I could look calmly. I thought a good\ndeal about my battalion and the comedy of my present position. You see\nI was getting better, for I called it comedy now, not tragedy.\n\nBut chiefly I thought of my mission. All that wild day in the snow it\nhad seemed the merest farce. The three words Harry Bullivant had\nscribbled had danced through my head in a crazy fandango. They were\npresent to me now, but coolly and sanely in all their meagreness.\n\nI remember that I took each one separately and chewed on it for hours.\n_Kasredin_--there was nothing to be got out of that. _Cancer_--there\nwere too many meanings, all blind. _V. I._--that was the worst\ngibberish of all.\n\nBefore this I had always taken the I as the letter of the alphabet. I\nhad thought the v. must stand for von, and I had considered the German\nnames beginning with I--Ingolstadt, Ingeburg, Ingenohl, and all the\nrest of them. I had made a list of about seventy at the British Museum\nbefore I left London.\n\nNow I suddenly found myself taking the I as the numeral One. Idly, not\nthinking what I was doing, I put it into German.\n\nThen I nearly fell out of the bed. _Von Einem_--the name I had heard at\nGaudian\'s house, the name Stumm had spoken behind his hand, the name to\nwhich Hilda was probably the prefix. It was a tremendous\ndiscovery--the first real bit of light I had found. Harry Bullivant\nknew that some man or woman called von Einem was at the heart of the\nmystery. Stumm had spoken of the same personage with respect and in\nconnection with the work I proposed to do in raising the Moslem\nAfricans. If I found von Einem I would be getting very warm. What was\nthe word that Stumm had whispered to Gaudian and scared that worthy?\nIt had sounded like _uhnmantl_. If I could only get that clear, I would\nsolve the riddle.\n\nI think that discovery completed my cure. At any rate on the evening\nof the fifth day--it was Wednesday, the 29th of December--I was well\nenough to get up. When the dark had fallen and it was too late to fear\na visitor, I came downstairs and, wrapped in my green cape, took a seat\nby the fire.\n\nAs we sat there in the firelight, with the three white-headed children\nstaring at me with saucer eyes, and smiling when I looked their way,\nthe woman talked. Her man had gone to the wars on the Eastern front,\nand the last she had heard from him he was in a Polish bog and longing\nfor his dry native woodlands. The struggle meant little to her. It\nwas an act of God, a thunderbolt out of the sky, which had taken a\nhusband from her, and might soon make her a widow and her children\nfatherless. She knew nothing of its causes and purposes, and thought\nof the Russians as a gigantic nation of savages, heathens who had never\nbeen converted, and who would eat up German homes if the good Lord and\nthe brave German soldiers did not stop them. I tried hard to find out\nif she had any notion of affairs in the West, but she hadn\'t, beyond\nthe fact that there was trouble with the French. I doubt if she knew\nof England\'s share in it. She was a decent soul, with no bitterness\nagainst anybody, not even the Russians if they would spare her man.\n\nThat night I realized the crazy folly of war. When I saw the\nsplintered shell of Ypres and heard hideous tales of German doings, I\nused to want to see the whole land of the Boche given up to fire and\nsword. I thought we could never end the war properly without giving\nthe Huns some of their own medicine. But that woodcutter\'s cottage\ncured me of such nightmares. I was for punishing the guilty but\nletting the innocent go free. It was our business to thank God and\nkeep our hands clean from the ugly blunders to which Germany\'s madness\nhad driven her. What good would it do Christian folk to burn poor\nlittle huts like this and leave children\'s bodies by the wayside? To\nbe able to laugh and to be merciful are the only things that make man\nbetter than the beasts.\n\nThe place, as I have said, was desperately poor. The woman\'s face had\nthe skin stretched tight over the bones and that transparency which\nmeans under-feeding; I fancied she did not have the liberal allowance\nthat soldiers\' wives get in England. The children looked better\nnourished, but it was by their mother\'s sacrifice. I did my best to\ncheer them up. I told them long yarns about Africa and lions and\ntigers, and I got some pieces of wood and whittled them into toys. I\nam fairly good with a knife, and I carved very presentable likenesses\nof a monkey, a springbok, and a rhinoceros. The children went to bed\nhugging the first toys, I expect, they ever possessed.\n\nIt was clear to me that I must leave as soon as possible. I had to get\non with my business, and besides, it was not fair to the woman. Any\nmoment I might be found here, and she would get into trouble for\nharbouring me. I asked her if she knew where the Danube was, and her\nanswer surprised me. \'You will reach it in an hour\'s walk,\' she said.\n\'The track through the wood runs straight to the ferry.\'\n\nNext morning after breakfast I took my departure. It was drizzling\nweather, and I was feeling very lean. Before going I presented my\nhostess and the children with two sovereigns apiece. \'It is English\ngold,\' I said, \'for I have to travel among our enemies and use our\nenemies\' money. But the gold is good, and if you go to any town they\nwill change it for you. But I advise you to put it in your\nstocking-foot and use it only if all else fails. You must keep your\nhome going, for some day there will be peace and your man will come\nback from the wars.\'\n\nI kissed the children, shook the woman\'s hand, and went off down the\nclearing. They had cried \'Auf wiedersehen,\' but it wasn\'t likely I\nwould ever see them again.\n\nThe snow had all gone, except in patches in the deep hollows. The\nground was like a full sponge, and a cold rain drifted in my eyes.\nAfter half an hour\'s steady trudge the trees thinned, and presently I\ncame out on a knuckle of open ground cloaked in dwarf junipers. And\nthere before me lay the plain, and a mile off a broad brimming river.\n\nI sat down and looked dismally at the prospect. The exhilaration of my\ndiscovery the day before had gone. I had stumbled on a worthless piece\nof knowledge, for I could not use it. Hilda von Einem, if such a\nperson existed and possessed the great secret, was probably living in\nsome big house in Berlin, and I was about as likely to get anything out\nof her as to be asked to dine with the Kaiser. Blenkiron might do\nsomething, but where on earth was Blenkiron? I dared say Sir Walter\nwould value the information, but I could not get to Sir Walter. I was\nto go on to Constantinople, running away from the people who really\npulled the ropes. But if I stayed I could do nothing, and I could not\nstay. I must go on and I didn\'t see how I could go on. Every course\nseemed shut to me, and I was in as pretty a tangle as any man ever\nstumbled into.\n\nFor I was morally certain that Stumm would not let the thing drop. I\nknew too much, and besides I had outraged his pride. He would beat the\ncountryside till he got me, and he undoubtedly would get me if I waited\nmuch longer. But how was I to get over the border? My passport would\nbe no good, for the number of that pass would long ere this have been\nwired to every police-station in Germany, and to produce it would be to\nask for trouble. Without it I could not cross the borders by any\nrailway. My studies of the Tourists\' Guide had suggested that once I\nwas in Austria I might find things slacker and move about easier. I\nthought of having a try at the Tyrol and I also thought of Bohemia.\nBut these places were a long way off, and there were several thousand\nchances each day that I would be caught on the road.\n\nThis was Thursday, the 30th of December, the second last day of the\nyear. I was due in Constantinople on the 17th of January.\nConstantinople! I had thought myself a long way from it in Berlin, but\nnow it seemed as distant as the moon.\n\nBut that big sullen river in front of me led to it. And as I looked my\nattention was caught by a curious sight. On the far eastern horizon,\nwhere the water slipped round a corner of hill, there was a long trail\nof smoke. The streamers thinned out, and seemed to come from some boat\nwell round the corner, but I could see at least two boats in view.\nTherefore there must be a long train of barges, with a tug in tow.\n\nI looked to the west and saw another such procession coming into sight.\nFirst went a big river steamer--it can\'t have been much less than 1,000\ntons--and after came a string of barges. I counted no less than six\nbesides the tug. They were heavily loaded and their draught must have\nbeen considerable, but there was plenty of depth in the flooded river.\n\nA moment\'s reflection told me what I was looking at. Once Sandy, in\none of the discussions you have in hospital, had told us just how the\nGermans munitioned their Balkan campaign. They were pretty certain of\ndishing Serbia at the first go, and it was up to them to get through\nguns and shells to the old Turk, who was running pretty short in his\nfirst supply. Sandy said that they wanted the railway, but they wanted\nstill more the river, and they could make certain of that in a week.\nHe told us how endless strings of barges, loaded up at the big\nfactories of Westphalia, were moving through the canals from the Rhine\nor the Elbe to the Danube. Once the first reached Turkey, there would\nbe regular delivery, you see--as quick as the Turks could handle the\nstuff. And they didn\'t return empty, Sandy said, but came back full of\nTurkish cotton and Bulgarian beef and Rumanian corn. I don\'t know\nwhere Sandy got the knowledge, but there was the proof of it before my\neyes.\n\nIt was a wonderful sight, and I could have gnashed my teeth to see\nthose loads of munitions going snugly off to the enemy. I calculated\nthey would give our poor chaps hell in Gallipoli. And then, as I\nlooked, an idea came into my head and with it an eighth part of a hope.\n\nThere was only one way for me to get out of Germany, and that was to\nleave in such good company that I would be asked no questions. That\nwas plain enough. If I travelled to Turkey, for instance, in the\nKaiser\'s suite, I would be as safe as the mail; but if I went on my own\nI was done. I had, so to speak, to get my passport inside Germany, to\njoin some caravan which had free marching powers. And there was the\nkind of caravan before me--the Essen barges.\n\nIt sounded lunacy, for I guessed that munitions of war would be as\njealously guarded as old Hindenburg\'s health. All the safer, I replied\nto myself, once I get there. If you are looking for a deserter you\ndon\'t seek him at the favourite regimental public-house. If you\'re\nafter a thief, among the places you\'d be apt to leave unsearched would\nbe Scotland Yard.\n\nIt was sound reasoning, but how was I to get on board? Probably the\nbeastly things did not stop once in a hundred miles, and Stumm would\nget me long before I struck a halting-place. And even if I did get a\nchance like that, how was I to get permission to travel?\n\nOne step was clearly indicated--to get down to the river bank at once.\nSo I set off at a sharp walk across squelchy fields, till I struck a\nroad where the ditches had overflowed so as almost to meet in the\nmiddle. The place was so bad that I hoped travellers might be few. And\nas I trudged, my thoughts were busy with my prospects as a stowaway.\nIf I bought food, I might get a chance to lie snug on one of the\nbarges. They would not break bulk till they got to their journey\'s end.\n\nSuddenly I noticed that the steamer, which was now abreast me, began to\nmove towards the shore, and as I came over a low rise, I saw on my left\na straggling village with a church, and a small landing-stage. The\nhouses stood about a quarter of a mile from the stream, and between\nthem was a straight, poplar-fringed road.\n\nSoon there could be no doubt about it. The procession was coming to a\nstandstill. The big tug nosed her way in and lay up alongside the\npier, where in that season of flood there was enough depth of water.\nShe signalled to the barges and they also started to drop anchors,\nwhich showed that there must be at least two men aboard each. Some of\nthem dragged a bit and it was rather a cock-eyed train that lay in\nmid-stream. The tug got out a gangway, and from where I lay I saw half\na dozen men leave it, carrying something on their shoulders.\n\nIt could be only one thing--a dead body. Someone of the crew must have\ndied, and this halt was to bury him. I watched the procession move\ntowards the village and I reckoned they would take some time there,\nthough they might have wired ahead for a grave to be dug. Anyhow, they\nwould be long enough to give me a chance.\n\nFor I had decided upon the brazen course. Blenkiron had said you\ncouldn\'t cheat the Boche, but you could bluff him. I was going to put\nup the most monstrous bluff. If the whole countryside was hunting for\nRichard Hannay, Richard Hannay would walk through as a pal of the\nhunters. For I remembered the pass Stumm had given me. If that was\nworth a tinker\'s curse it should be good enough to impress a ship\'s\ncaptain.\n\nOf course there were a thousand risks. They might have heard of me in\nthe village and told the ship\'s party the story. For that reason I\nresolved not to go there but to meet the sailors when they were\nreturning to the boat. Or the captain might have been warned and got\nthe number of my pass, in which case Stumm would have his hands on me\npretty soon. Or the captain might be an ignorant fellow who had never\nseen a Secret Service pass and did not know what it meant, and would\nrefuse me transport by the letter of his instructions. In that case I\nmight wait on another convoy.\n\nI had shaved and made myself a fairly respectable figure before I left\nthe cottage. It was my cue to wait for the men when they left the\nchurch, wait on that quarter-mile of straight highway. I judged the\ncaptain must be in the party. The village, I was glad to observe,\nseemed very empty. I have my own notions about the Bavarians as\nfighting men, but I am bound to say that, judging by my observations,\nvery few of them stayed at home.\n\nThat funeral took hours. They must have had to dig the grave, for I\nwaited near the road in a clump of cherry-trees, with my feet in two\ninches of mud and water, till I felt chilled to the bone. I prayed to\nGod it would not bring back my fever, for I was only one day out of\nbed. I had very little tobacco left in my pouch, but I stood myself\none pipe, and I ate one of the three cakes of chocolate I still carried.\n\nAt last, well after midday, I could see the ship\'s party returning.\nThey marched two by two and I was thankful to see that they had no\nvillagers with them. I walked to the road, turned up it, and met the\nvanguard, carrying my head as high as I knew how.\n\n\'Where\'s your captain?\' I asked, and a man jerked his thumb over his\nshoulder. The others wore thick jerseys and knitted caps, but there\nwas one man at the rear in uniform.\n\nHe was a short, broad man with a weather-beaten face and an anxious eye.\n\n\'May I have a word with you, Herr Captain?\' I said, with what I hoped\nwas a judicious blend of authority and conciliation.\n\nHe nodded to his companion, who walked on.\n\n\'Yes?\' he asked rather impatiently.\n\nI proffered him my pass. Thank Heaven he had seen the kind of thing\nbefore, for his face at once took on that curious look which one person\nin authority always wears when he is confronted with another. He\nstudied it closely and then raised his eyes.\n\n\'Well, Sir?\' he said. \'I observe your credentials. What can I do for\nyou?\'\n\n\'I take it you are bound for Constantinople?\' I asked.\n\n\'The boats go as far as Rustchuk,\' he replied. \'There the stuff is\ntransferred to the railway.\'\n\n\'And you reach Rustchuk when?\'\n\n\'In ten days, bar accidents. Let us say twelve to be safe.\'\n\n\'I want to accompany you,\' I said. \'In my profession, Herr Captain, it\nis necessary sometimes to make journeys by other than the common route.\nThat is now my desire. I have the right to call upon some other branch\nof our country\'s service to help me. Hence my request.\'\n\nVery plainly he did not like it.\n\n\'I must telegraph about it. My instructions are to let no one aboard,\nnot even a man like you. I am sorry, Sir, but I must get authority\nfirst before I can fall in with your desire. Besides, my boat is\nill-found. You had better wait for the next batch and ask Dreyser to\ntake you. I lost Walter today. He was ill when he came aboard--a\ndisease of the heart--but he would not be persuaded. And last night he\ndied.\'\n\n\'Was that him you have been burying?\' I asked.\n\n\'Even so. He was a good man and my wife\'s cousin, and now I have no\nengineer. Only a fool of a boy from Hamburg. I have just come from\nwiring to my owners for a fresh man, but even if he comes by the\nquickest train he will scarcely overtake us before Vienna or even Buda.\'\n\nI saw light at last.\n\n\'We will go together,\' I said, \'and cancel that wire. For behold, Herr\nCaptain, I am an engineer, and will gladly keep an eye on your boilers\ntill we get to Rustchuk.\'\n\nHe looked at me doubtfully.\n\n\'I am speaking truth,\' I said. \'Before the war I was an engineer in\nDamaraland. Mining was my branch, but I had a good general training,\nand I know enough to run a river-boat. Have no fear. I promise you I\nwill earn my passage.\'\n\nHis face cleared, and he looked what he was, an honest, good-humoured\nNorth German seaman.\n\n\'Come then in God\'s name,\' he cried, \'and we will make a bargain. I\nwill let the telegraph sleep. I require authority from the Government\nto take a passenger, but I need none to engage a new engineer.\'\n\nHe sent one of the hands back to the village to cancel his wire. In ten\nminutes I found myself on board, and ten minutes later we were out in\nmid-stream and our tows were lumbering into line. Coffee was being made\nready in the cabin, and while I waited for it I picked up the captain\'s\nbinoculars and scanned the place I had left.\n\nI saw some curious things. On the first road I had struck on leaving\nthe cottage there were men on bicycles moving rapidly. They seemed to\nwear uniform. On the next parallel road, the one that ran through the\nvillage, I could see others. I noticed, too, that several figures\nappeared to be beating the intervening fields.\n\nStumm\'s cordon had got busy at last, and I thanked my stars that not\none of the villagers had seen me. I had not got away much too soon,\nfor in another half-hour he would have had me.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINE\n\nThe Return of the Straggler\n\nBefore I turned in that evening I had done some good hours\' work in the\nengine-room. The boat was oil-fired, and in very fair order, so my\nduties did not look as if they would be heavy. There was nobody who\ncould be properly called an engineer; only, besides the furnace-men, a\ncouple of lads from Hamburg who had been a year ago apprentices in a\nship-building yard. They were civil fellows, both of them consumptive,\nwho did what I told them and said little. By bedtime, if you had seen\nme in my blue jumper, a pair of carpet slippers, and a flat cap--all\nthe property of the deceased Walter--you would have sworn I had been\nbred to the firing of river-boats, whereas I had acquired most of my\nknowledge on one run down the Zambesi, when the proper engineer got\ndrunk and fell overboard among the crocodiles.\n\nThe captain--they called him Schenk--was out of his bearings in the\njob. He was a Frisian and a first-class deep-water seaman, but, since\nhe knew the Rhine delta, and because the German mercantile marine was\nlaid on the ice till the end of war, they had turned him on to this\nshow. He was bored by the business, and didn\'t understand it very\nwell. The river charts puzzled him, and though it was pretty plain\ngoing for hundreds of miles, yet he was in a perpetual fidget about the\npilotage. You could see that he would have been far more in his\nelement smelling his way through the shoals of the Ems mouth, or\nbeating against a northeaster in the shallow Baltic. He had six barges\nin tow, but the heavy flood of the Danube made it an easy job except\nwhen it came to going slow. There were two men on each barge, who came\naboard every morning to draw rations. That was a funny business, for\nwe never lay to if we could help it. There was a dinghy belonging to\neach barge, and the men used to row to the next and get a lift in that\nbarge\'s dinghy, and so forth. Six men would appear in the dinghy of\nthe barge nearest us and carry off supplies for the rest. The men were\nmostly Frisians, slow-spoken, sandy-haired lads, very like the breed\nyou strike on the Essex coast.\n\nIt was the fact that Schenk was really a deep-water sailor, and so a\nnovice to the job, that made me get on with him. He was a good fellow\nand quite willing to take a hint, so before I had been twenty-four\nhours on board he was telling me all his difficulties, and I was doing\nmy best to cheer him. And difficulties came thick, because the next\nnight was New Year\'s Eve.\n\nI knew that that night was a season of gaiety in Scotland, but Scotland\nwasn\'t in it with the Fatherland. Even Schenk, though he was in charge\nof valuable stores and was voyaging against time, was quite clear that\nthe men must have permission for some kind of beano. Just before\ndarkness we came abreast a fair-sized town, whose name I never\ndiscovered, and decided to lie to for the night. The arrangement was\nthat one man should be left on guard in each barge, and the other get\nfour hours\' leave ashore. Then he would return and relieve his friend,\nwho should proceed to do the same thing. I foresaw that there would be\nsome fun when the first batch returned, but I did not dare to protest.\nI was desperately anxious to get past the Austrian frontier, for I had\na half-notion we might be searched there, but Schenk took his\n_Sylvesterabend_ business so seriously that I would have risked a row\nif I had tried to argue.\n\nThe upshot was what I expected. We got the first batch aboard about\nmidnight, blind to the world, and the others straggled in at all hours\nnext morning. I stuck to the boat for obvious reasons, but next day it\nbecame too serious, and I had to go ashore with the captain to try and\nround up the stragglers. We got them all in but two, and I am inclined\nto think these two had never meant to come back. If I had a soft job\nlike a river-boat I shouldn\'t be inclined to run away in the middle of\nGermany with the certainty that my best fate would be to be scooped up\nfor the trenches, but your Frisian has no more imagination than a\nhaddock. The absentees were both watchmen from the barges, and I fancy\nthe monotony of the life had got on their nerves.\n\nThe captain was in a raging temper, for he was short-handed to begin\nwith. He would have started a press-gang, but there was no superfluity\nof men in that township: nothing but boys and grandfathers. As I was\nhelping to run the trip I was pretty annoyed also, and I sluiced down\nthe drunkards with icy Danube water, using all the worst language I\nknew in Dutch and German. It was a raw morning, and as we raged\nthrough the river-side streets I remember I heard the dry crackle of\nwild geese going overhead, and wished I could get a shot at them. I\ntold one fellow--he was the most troublesome--that he was a disgrace to\na great Empire, and was only fit to fight with the filthy English.\n\n\'God in Heaven!\' said the captain, \'we can delay no longer. We must\nmake shift the best we can. I can spare one man from the deck hands,\nand you must give up one from the engine-room.\'\n\nThat was arranged, and we were tearing back rather short in the wind\nwhen I espied a figure sitting on a bench beside the booking-office on\nthe pier. It was a slim figure, in an old suit of khaki: some cast-off\nduds which had long lost the semblance of a uniform. It had a gentle\nface, and was smoking peacefully, looking out upon the river and the\nboats and us noisy fellows with meek philosophical eyes. If I had seen\nGeneral French sitting there and looking like nothing on earth I\ncouldn\'t have been more surprised.\n\nThe man stared at me without recognition. He was waiting for his cue.\n\nI spoke rapidly in Sesutu, for I was afraid the captain might know\nDutch.\n\n\'Where have you come from?\' I asked.\n\n\'They shut me up in _tronk_,\' said Peter, \'and I ran away. I am tired,\nCornelis, and want to continue the journey by boat.\'\n\n\'Remember you have worked for me in Africa,\' I said. \'You are just\nhome from Damaraland. You are a German who has lived thirty years away\nfrom home. You can tend a furnace and have worked in mines.\'\n\nThen I spoke to the captain.\n\n\'Here is a fellow who used to be in my employ, Captain Schenk. It\'s\nalmighty luck we\'ve struck him. He\'s old, and not very strong in the\nhead, but I\'ll go bail he\'s a good worker. He says he\'ll come with us\nand I can use him in the engine-room.\'\n\n\'Stand up,\' said the Captain.\n\nPeter stood up, light and slim and wiry as a leopard. A sailor does\nnot judge men by girth and weight.\n\n\'He\'ll do,\' said Schenk, and the next minute he was readjusting his\ncrews and giving the strayed revellers the rough side of his tongue.\nAs it chanced, I couldn\'t keep Peter with me, but had to send him to\none of the barges, and I had time for no more than five words with him,\nwhen I told him to hold his tongue and live up to his reputation as a\nhalf-wit. That accursed _Sylvesterabend_ had played havoc with the\nwhole outfit, and the captain and I were weary men before we got things\nstraight.\n\nIn one way it turned out well. That afternoon we passed the frontier\nand I never knew it till I saw a man in a strange uniform come aboard,\nwho copied some figures on a schedule, and brought us a mail. With my\ndirty face and general air of absorption in duty, I must have been an\nunsuspicious figure. He took down the names of the men in the barges,\nand Peter\'s name was given as it appeared on the ship\'s roll--Anton\nBlum.\n\n\'You must feel it strange, Herr Brandt,\' said the captain, \'to be\nscrutinized by a policeman, you who give orders, I doubt not, to many\npolicemen.\'\n\nI shrugged my shoulders. \'It is my profession. It is my business to\ngo unrecognized often by my own servants.\' I could see that I was\nbecoming rather a figure in the captain\'s eyes. He liked the way I\nkept the men up to their work, for I hadn\'t been a nigger-driver for\nnothing.\n\nLate on that Sunday night we passed through a great city which the\ncaptain told me was Vienna. It seemed to last for miles and miles, and\nto be as brightly lit as a circus. After that, we were in big plains\nand the air grew perishing cold. Peter had come aboard once for his\nrations, but usually he left it to his partner, for he was lying very\nlow. But one morning--I think it was the 5th of January, when we had\npassed Buda and were moving through great sodden flats just sprinkled\nwith snow--the captain took it into his head to get me to overhaul the\nbarge loads. Armed with a mighty type-written list, I made a tour of\nthe barges, beginning with the hindmost. There was a fine old stock of\ndeadly weapons--mostly machine-guns and some field-pieces, and enough\nshells to blow up the Gallipoli peninsula. All kinds of shell were\nthere, from the big 14-inch crumps to rifle grenades and\ntrench-mortars. It made me fairly sick to see all these good things\npreparing for our own fellows, and I wondered whether I would not be\ndoing my best service if I engineered a big explosion. Happily I had\nthe common sense to remember my job and my duty and to stick to it.\n\nPeter was in the middle of the convoy, and I found him pretty unhappy,\nprincipally through not being allowed to smoke. His companion was an\nox-eyed lad, whom I ordered to the look-out while Peter and I went over\nthe lists.\n\n\'Cornelis, my old friend,\' he said, \'there are some pretty toys here.\nWith a spanner and a couple of clear hours I could make these maxims\nabout as deadly as bicycles. What do you say to a try?\'\n\n\'I\'ve considered that,\' I said, \'but it won\'t do. We\'re on a bigger\nbusiness than wrecking munition convoys. I want to know how you got\nhere.\'\n\nHe smiled with that extraordinary Sunday-school docility of his.\n\n\'It was very simple, Cornelis. I was foolish in the cafe--but they\nhave told you of that. You see I was angry and did not reflect. They\nhad separated us, and I could see would treat me as dirt. Therefore, my\nbad temper came out, for, as I have told you, I do not like Germans.\'\n\nPeter gazed lovingly at the little bleak farms which dotted the\nHungarian plain.\n\n\'All night I lay in _tronk_ with no food. In the morning they fed me,\nand took me hundreds of miles in a train to a place which I think is\ncalled Neuburg. It was a great prison, full of English officers ... I\nasked myself many times on the journey what was the reason of this\ntreatment, for I could see no sense in it. If they wanted to punish me\nfor insulting them they had the chance to send me off to the trenches.\nNo one could have objected. If they thought me useless they could have\nturned me back to Holland. I could not have stopped them. But they\ntreated me as if I were a dangerous man, whereas all their conduct\nhitherto had shown that they thought me a fool. I could not understand\nit.\n\n\'But I had not been one night in that Neuburg place before I thought of\nthe reason. They wanted to keep me under observation as a check upon\nyou, Cornelis. I figured it out this way. They had given you some\nvery important work which required them to let you into some big\nsecret. So far, good. They evidently thought much of you, even yon\nStumm man, though he was as rude as a buffalo. But they did not know\nyou fully, and they wanted to check on you. That check they found in\nPeter Pienaar. Peter was a fool, and if there was anything to blab,\nsooner or later Peter would blab it. Then they would stretch out a\nlong arm and nip you short, wherever you were. Therefore they must keep\nold Peter under their eye.\'\n\n\'That sounds likely enough,\' I said.\n\n\'It was God\'s truth,\' said Peter. \'And when it was all clear to me I\nsettled that I must escape. Partly because I am a free man and do not\nlike to be in prison, but mostly because I was not sure of myself.\nSome day my temper would go again, and I might say foolish things for\nwhich Cornelis would suffer. So it was very certain that I must escape.\n\n\'Now, Cornelis, I noticed pretty soon that there were two kinds among\nthe prisoners. There were the real prisoners, mostly English and\nFrench, and there were humbugs. The humbugs were treated, apparently,\nlike the others, but not really, as I soon perceived. There was one man\nwho passed as an English officer, another as a French Canadian, and the\nothers called themselves Russians. None of the honest men suspected\nthem, but they were there as spies to hatch plots for escape and get\nthe poor devils caught in the act, and to worm out confidences which\nmight be of value. That is the German notion of good business. I am\nnot a British soldier to think all men are gentlemen. I know that\namongst men there are desperate _skellums_, so I soon picked up this\ngame. It made me very angry, but it was a good thing for my plan. I\nmade my resolution to escape the day I arrived at Neuburg, and on\nChristmas Day I had a plan made.\'\n\n\'Peter, you\'re an old marvel. Do you mean to say you were quite\ncertain of getting away whenever you wanted?\'\n\n\'Quite certain, Cornelis. You see, I have been wicked in my time and\nknow something about the inside of prisons. You may build them like\ngreat castles, or they may be like a backveld _tronk_, only mud and\ncorrugated iron, but there is always a key and a man who keeps it, and\nthat man can be bested. I knew I could get away, but I did not think\nit would be so easy. That was due to the bogus prisoners, my friends,\nthe spies.\n\n\'I made great pals with them. On Christmas night we were very jolly\ntogether. I think I spotted every one of them the first day. I\nbragged about my past and all I had done, and I told them I was going\nto escape. They backed me up and promised to help. Next morning I had\na plan. In the afternoon, just after dinner, I had to go to the\ncommandant\'s room. They treated me a little differently from the\nothers, for I was not a prisoner of war, and I went there to be asked\nquestions and to be cursed as a stupid Dutchman. There was no strict\nguard kept there, for the place was on the second floor, and distant by\nmany yards from any staircase. In the corridor outside the\ncommandant\'s room there was a window which had no bars, and four feet\nfrom the window the limb of a great tree. A man might reach that limb,\nand if he were active as a monkey might descend to the ground. Beyond\nthat I knew nothing, but I am a good climber, Cornelis.\n\n\'I told the others of my plan. They said it was good, but no one\noffered to come with me. They were very noble; they declared that the\nscheme was mine and I should have the fruit of it, for if more than one\ntried, detection was certain. I agreed and thanked them--thanked them\nwith tears in my eyes. Then one of them very secretly produced a map.\nWe planned out my road, for I was going straight to Holland. It was a\nlong road, and I had no money, for they had taken all my sovereigns\nwhen I was arrested, but they promised to get a subscription up among\nthemselves to start me. Again I wept tears of gratitude. This was on\nSunday, the day after Christmas, and I settled to make the attempt on\nthe Wednesday afternoon.\n\n\'Now, Cornelis, when the lieutenant took us to see the British\nprisoners, you remember, he told us many things about the ways of\nprisons. He told us how they loved to catch a man in the act of\nescape, so that they could use him harshly with a clear conscience. I\nthought of that, and calculated that now my friends would have told\neverything to the commandant, and that they would be waiting to bottle\nme on the Wednesday. Till then I reckoned I would be slackly guarded,\nfor they would look on me as safe in the net ...\n\n\'So I went out of the window next day. It was the Monday afternoon ...\'\n\n\'That was a bold stroke,\' I said admiringly.\n\n\'The plan was bold, but it was not skilful,\' said Peter modestly. \'I\nhad no money beyond seven marks, and I had but one stick of chocolate.\nI had no overcoat, and it was snowing hard. Further, I could not get\ndown the tree, which had a trunk as smooth and branchless as a blue\ngum. For a little I thought I should be compelled to give in, and I\nwas not happy.\n\n\'But I had leisure, for I did not think I would be missed before\nnightfall, and given time a man can do most things. By and by I found\na branch which led beyond the outer wall of the yard and hung above the\nriver. This I followed, and then dropped from it into the stream. It\nwas a drop of some yards, and the water was very swift, so that I\nnearly drowned. I would rather swim the Limpopo, Cornelis, among all\nthe crocodiles than that icy river. Yet I managed to reach the shore\nand get my breath lying in the bushes ...\n\n\'After that it was plain going, though I was very cold. I knew that I\nwould be sought on the northern roads, as I had told my friends, for no\none could dream of an ignorant Dutchman going south away from his\nkinsfolk. But I had learned enough from the map to know that our road\nlay south-east, and I had marked this big river.\'\n\n\'Did you hope to pick me up?\' I asked.\n\n\'No, Cornelis, I thought you would be travelling in first-class\ncarriages while I should be plodding on foot. But I was set on getting\nto the place you spoke of (how do you call it? Constant Nople?), where\nour big business lay. I thought I might be in time for that.\'\n\n\'You\'re an old Trojan, Peter,\' I said; \'but go on. How did you get to\nthat landing-stage where I found you?\'\n\n\'It was a hard journey,\' he said meditatively. \'It was not easy to get\nbeyond the barbed-wire entanglements which surrounded Neuburg--yes,\neven across the river. But in time I reached the woods and was safe,\nfor I did not think any German could equal me in wild country. The\nbest of them, even their foresters, are but babes in veldcraft compared\nwith such as me ... My troubles came only from hunger and cold. Then\nI met a Peruvian smouse[*], and sold him my clothes and bought from him\nthese. I did not want to part with my own, which were better, but he\ngave me ten marks on the deal. After that I went into a village and ate\nheavily.\'\n\n([*]Peter meant a Polish-Jew fellow.)\n\n\'Were you pursued?\' I asked.\n\n\'I do not think so. They had gone north, as I expected, and were\nlooking for me at the railway stations which my friends had marked for\nme. I walked happily and put a bold face on it. If I saw a man or\nwoman look at me suspiciously I went up to them at once and talked. I\ntold a sad tale, and all believed it. I was a poor Dutchman travelling\nhome on foot to see a dying mother, and I had been told that by the\nDanube I should find the main railway to take me to Holland. There\nwere kind people who gave me food, and one woman gave me half a mark,\nand wished me God speed ... Then on the last day of the year I came to\nthe river and found many drunkards.\'\n\n\'Was that when you resolved to get on one of the river-boats?\'\n\n\'_Ja_, Cornelis. As soon as I heard of the boats I saw where my chance\nlay. But you might have knocked me over with a straw when I saw you\ncome on shore. That was good fortune, my friend... I have been\nthinking much about the Germans, and I will tell you the truth. It is\nonly boldness that can baffle them. They are a most diligent people.\nThey will think of all likely difficulties, but not of all possible\nones. They have not much imagination. They are like steam engines\nwhich must keep to prepared tracks. There they will hunt any man down,\nbut let him trek for open country and they will be at a loss.\nTherefore boldness, my friend; for ever boldness. Remember as a nation\nthey wear spectacles, which means that they are always peering.\'\n\nPeter broke off to gloat over the wedges of geese and the strings of\nwild swans that were always winging across those plains. His tale had\nbucked me up wonderfully. Our luck had held beyond all belief, and I\nhad a kind of hope in the business now which had been wanting before.\nThat afternoon, too, I got another fillip. I came on deck for a breath\nof air and found it pretty cold after the heat of the engine-room. So\nI called to one of the deck hands to fetch me up my cloak from the\ncabin--the same I had bought that first morning in the Greif village.\n\n_\'Der grune Mantel_?\' the man shouted up, and I cried, \'Yes\'. But the\nwords seemed to echo in my ears, and long after he had given me the\ngarment I stood staring abstractedly over the bulwarks.\n\nHis tone had awakened a chord of memory, or, to be accurate, they had\ngiven emphasis to what before had been only blurred and vague. For he\nhad spoken the words which Stumm had uttered behind his hand to\nGaudian. I had heard something like \'Uhnmantl,\' and could make nothing\nof it. Now I was as certain of those words as of my own existence.\nThey had been \'_Grune Mantel_\'. _Grune Mantel_, whatever it might be,\nwas the name which Stumm had not meant me to hear, which was some\ntalisman for the task I had proposed, and which was connected in some\nway with the mysterious von Einem.\n\nThis discovery put me in high fettle. I told myself that, considering\nthe difficulties, I had managed to find out a wonderful amount in a\nvery few days. It only shows what a man can do with the slenderest\nevidence if he keeps chewing and chewing on it ...\n\nTwo mornings later we lay alongside the quays at Belgrade, and I took\nthe opportunity of stretching my legs. Peter had come ashore for a\nsmoke, and we wandered among the battered riverside streets, and looked\nat the broken arches of the great railway bridge which the Germans were\nworking at like beavers. There was a big temporary pontoon affair to\ntake the railway across, but I calculated that the main bridge would be\nready inside a month. It was a clear, cold, blue day, and as one\nlooked south one saw ridge after ridge of snowy hills. The upper\nstreets of the city were still fairly whole, and there were shops open\nwhere food could be got. I remember hearing English spoken, and seeing\nsome Red Cross nurses in the custody of Austrian soldiers coming from\nthe railway station.\n\nIt would have done me a lot of good to have had a word with them. I\nthought of the gallant people whose capital this had been, how three\ntimes they had flung the Austrians back over the Danube, and then had\nonly been beaten by the black treachery of their so-called allies.\nSomehow that morning in Belgrade gave both Peter and me a new purpose\nin our task. It was our business to put a spoke in the wheel of this\nmonstrous bloody Juggernaut that was crushing the life out of the\nlittle heroic nations.\n\nWe were just getting ready to cast off when a distinguished party\narrived at the quay. There were all kinds of uniforms--German,\nAustrian, and Bulgarian, and amid them one stout gentleman in a fur\ncoat and a black felt hat. They watched the barges up-anchor, and\nbefore we began to jerk into line I could hear their conversation. The\nfur coat was talking English.\n\n\'I reckon that\'s pretty good noos, General,\' it said; \'if the English\nhave run away from Gally-poly we can use these noo consignments for the\nbigger game. I guess it won\'t be long before we see the British lion\nmoving out of Egypt with sore paws.\'\n\nThey all laughed. \'The privilege of that spectacle may soon be ours,\'\nwas the reply.\n\nI did not pay much attention to the talk; indeed I did not realize till\nweeks later that that was the first tidings of the great evacuation of\nCape Helles. What rejoiced me was the sight of Blenkiron, as bland as\na barber among those swells. Here were two of the missionaries within\nreasonable distance of their goal.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TEN\n\nThe Garden-House of Suliman the Red\n\nWe reached Rustchuk on January 10th, but by no means landed on that\nday. Something had gone wrong with the unloading arrangements, or more\nlikely with the railway behind them, and we were kept swinging all day\nwell out in the turbid river. On the top of this Captain Schenk got an\nague, and by that evening was a blue and shivering wreck. He had done\nme well, and I reckoned I would stand by him. So I got his ship\'s\npapers, and the manifests of cargo, and undertook to see to the\ntrans-shipment. It wasn\'t the first time I had tackled that kind of\nbusiness, and I hadn\'t much to learn about steam cranes. I told him I\nwas going on to Constantinople and would take Peter with me, and he was\nagreeable. He would have to wait at Rustchuk to get his return cargo,\nand could easily inspan a fresh engineer.\n\nI worked about the hardest twenty-four hours of my life getting the\nstuff ashore. The landing officer was a Bulgarian, quite a competent\nman if he could have made the railways give him the trucks he needed.\nThere was a collection of hungry German transport officers always\nputting in their oars, and being infernally insolent to everybody. I\ntook the high and mighty line with them; and, as I had the Bulgarian\ncommandant on my side, after about two hours\' blasphemy got them\nquieted.\n\nBut the big trouble came the next morning when I had got nearly all the\nstuff aboard the trucks.\n\nA young officer in what I took to be a Turkish uniform rode up with an\naide-de-camp. I noticed the German guards saluting him, so I judged he\nwas rather a swell. He came up to me and asked me very civilly in\nGerman for the way-bills. I gave him them and he looked carefully\nthrough them, marking certain items with a blue pencil. Then he coolly\nhanded them to his aide-de-camp and spoke to him in Turkish.\n\n\'Look here, I want these back,\' I said. \'I can\'t do without them, and\nwe\'ve no time to waste.\'\n\n\'Presently,\' he said, smiling, and went off.\n\nI said nothing, reflecting that the stuff was for the Turks and they\nnaturally had to have some say in its handling. The loading was\npractically finished when my gentleman returned. He handed me a neatly\ntyped new set of way-bills. One glance at them showed that some of the\nbig items had been left out.\n\n\'Here, this won\'t do,\' I cried. \'Give me back the right set. This\nthing\'s no good to me.\'\n\nFor answer he winked gently, smiled like a dusky seraph, and held out\nhis hand. In it I saw a roll of money.\n\n\'For yourself,\' he said. \'It is the usual custom.\'\n\nIt was the first time anyone had ever tried to bribe me, and it made me\nboil up like a geyser. I saw his game clearly enough. Turkey would pay\nfor the lot to Germany: probably had already paid the bill: but she\nwould pay double for the things not on the way-bills, and pay to this\nfellow and his friends. This struck me as rather steep even for\nOriental methods of doing business.\n\n\'Now look here, Sir,\' I said, \'I don\'t stir from this place till I get\nthe correct way-bills. If you won\'t give me them, I will have every\nitem out of the trucks and make a new list. But a correct list I have,\nor the stuff stays here till Doomsday.\'\n\nHe was a slim, foppish fellow, and he looked more puzzled than angry.\n\n\'I offer you enough,\' he said, again stretching out his hand.\n\nAt that I fairly roared. \'If you try to bribe me, you infernal little\nhaberdasher, I\'ll have you off that horse and chuck you in the river.\'\n\nHe no longer misunderstood me. He began to curse and threaten, but I\ncut him short.\n\n\'Come along to the commandant, my boy,\' I said, and I marched away,\ntearing up his typewritten sheets as I went and strewing them behind me\nlike a paper chase.\n\nWe had a fine old racket in the commandant\'s office. I said it was my\nbusiness, as representing the German Government, to see the stuff\ndelivered to the consignee at Constantinople ship-shape and\nBristol-fashion. I told him it wasn\'t my habit to proceed with cooked\ndocuments. He couldn\'t but agree with me, but there was that wrathful\nOriental with his face as fixed as a Buddha.\n\n\'I am sorry, Rasta Bey,\' he said; \'but this man is in the right.\'\n\n\'I have authority from the Committee to receive the stores,\' he said\nsullenly.\n\n\'Those are not my instructions,\' was the answer. \'They are consigned\nto the Artillery commandant at Chataldja, General von Oesterzee.\'\n\nThe man shrugged his shoulders. \'Very well. I will have a word to say\nto General von Oesterzee, and many to this fellow who flouts the\nCommittee.\' And he strode away like an impudent boy.\n\nThe harassed commandant grinned. \'You\'ve offended his Lordship, and he\nis a bad enemy. All those damned Comitadjis are. You would be well\nadvised not to go on to Constantinople.\'\n\n\'And have that blighter in the red hat loot the trucks on the road?\nNo, thank you. I am going to see them safe at Chataldja, or whatever\nthey call the artillery depot.\'\n\nI said a good deal more, but that is an abbreviated translation of my\nremarks. My word for \'blighter\' was _trottel_, but I used some other\nexpressions which would have ravished my young Turk friend to hear.\nLooking back, it seems pretty ridiculous to have made all this fuss\nabout guns which were going to be used against my own people. But I\ndidn\'t see that at the time. My professional pride was up in arms, and\nI couldn\'t bear to have a hand in a crooked deal.\n\n\'Well, I advise you to go armed,\' said the commandant. \'You will have\na guard for the trucks, of course, and I will pick you good men. They\nmay hold you up all the same. I can\'t help you once you are past the\nfrontier, but I\'ll send a wire to Oesterzee and he\'ll make trouble if\nanything goes wrong. I still think you would have been wiser to humour\nRasta Bey.\'\n\nAs I was leaving he gave me a telegram. \'Here\'s a wire for your\nCaptain Schenk.\' I slipped the envelope in my pocket and went out.\n\nSchenk was pretty sick, so I left a note for him. At one o\'clock I got\nthe train started, with a couple of German Landwehr in each truck and\nPeter and I in a horse-box. Presently I remembered Schenk\'s telegram,\nwhich still reposed in my pocket. I took it out and opened it, meaning\nto wire it from the first station we stopped at. But I changed my mind\nwhen I read it. It was from some official at Regensburg, asking him to\nput under arrest and send back by the first boat a man called Brandt,\nwho was believed to have come aboard at Absthafen on the 30th of\nDecember.\n\nI whistled and showed it to Peter. The sooner we were at\nConstantinople the better, and I prayed we would get there before the\nfellow who sent this wire repeated it and got the commandant to send on\nthe message and have us held up at Chataldja. For my back had fairly\ngot stiffened about these munitions, and I was going to take any risk\nto see them safely delivered to their proper owner. Peter couldn\'t\nunderstand me at all. He still hankered after a grand destruction of\nthe lot somewhere down the railway. But then, this wasn\'t the line of\nPeter\'s profession, and his pride was not at stake. We had a mortally\nslow journey. It was bad enough in Bulgaria, but when we crossed the\nfrontier at a place called Mustafa Pasha we struck the real supineness\nof the East. Happily I found a German officer there who had some\nnotion of hustling, and, after all, it was his interest to get the\nstuff moved. It was the morning of the 16th, after Peter and I had\nbeen living like pigs on black bread and condemned tin stuff, that we\ncame in sight of a blue sea on our right hand and knew we couldn\'t be\nvery far from the end.\n\nIt was jolly near the end in another sense. We stopped at a station\nand were stretching our legs on the platform when I saw a familiar\nfigure approaching. It was Rasta, with half a dozen Turkish gendarmes.\n\nI called Peter, and we clambered into the truck next our horse-box. I\nhad been half expecting some move like this and had made a plan.\n\nThe Turk swaggered up and addressed us. \'You can get back to\nRustchuk,\' he said. \'I take over from you here. Hand me the papers.\'\n\n\'Is this Chataldja?\' I asked innocently.\n\n\'It is the end of your affair,\' he said haughtily. \'Quick, or it will\nbe the worse for you.\'\n\n\'Now, look here, my son,\' I said; \'you\'re a kid and know nothing. I\nhand over to General von Oesterzee and to no one else.\'\n\n\'You are in Turkey,\' he cried, \'and will obey the Turkish Government.\'\n\n\'I\'ll obey the Government right enough,\' I said; \'but if you\'re the\nGovernment I could make a better one with a bib and a rattle.\'\n\nHe said something to his men, who unslung their rifles.\n\n\'Please don\'t begin shooting,\' I said. \'There are twelve armed guards\nin this train who will take their orders from me. Besides, I and my\nfriend can shoot a bit.\'\n\n\'Fool!\' he cried, getting very angry. \'I can order up a regiment in\nfive minutes.\'\n\n\'Maybe you can,\' I said; \'but observe the situation. I am sitting on\nenough toluol to blow up this countryside. If you dare to come aboard\nI will shoot you. If you call in your regiment I will tell you what\nI\'ll do. I\'ll fire this stuff, and I reckon they\'ll be picking up the\nbits of you and your regiment off the Gallipoli Peninsula.\'\n\nHe had put up a bluff--a poor one--and I had called it. He saw I meant\nwhat I said, and became silken.\n\n\'Good-bye, sir,\' he said. \'You have had a fair chance and rejected it.\nWe shall meet again soon, and you will be sorry for your insolence.\'\n\nHe strutted away and it was all I could do to keep from running after\nhim. I wanted to lay him over my knee and spank him.\n\n\nWe got safely to Chataldja, and were received by von Oesterzee like\nlong-lost brothers. He was the regular gunner-officer, not thinking\nabout anything except his guns and shells. I had to wait about three\nhours while he was checking the stuff with the invoices, and then he\ngave me a receipt which I still possess. I told him about Rasta, and\nhe agreed that I had done right. It didn\'t make him as mad as I\nexpected, because, you see, he got his stuff safe in any case. It was\nonly that the wretched Turks had to pay twice for the lot of it.\n\nHe gave Peter and me luncheon, and was altogether very civil and\ninclined to talk about the war. I would have liked to hear what he had\nto say, for it would have been something to get the inside view of\nGermany\'s Eastern campaign, but I did not dare to wait. Any moment\nthere might arrive an incriminating wire from Rustchuk. Finally he lent\nus a car to take us the few miles to the city.\n\nSo it came about that at five past three on the 16th day of January,\nwith only the clothes we stood up in, Peter and I entered\nConstantinople.\n\nI was in considerable spirits, for I had got the final lap successfully\nover, and I was looking forward madly to meeting my friends; but, all\nthe same, the first sight was a mighty disappointment. I don\'t quite\nknow what I had expected--a sort of fairyland Eastern city, all white\nmarble and blue water, and stately Turks in surplices, and veiled\nhouris, and roses and nightingales, and some sort of string band\ndiscoursing sweet music. I had forgotten that winter is pretty much\nthe same everywhere. It was a drizzling day, with a south-east wind\nblowing, and the streets were long troughs of mud. The first part I\nstruck looked like a dingy colonial suburb--wooden houses and\ncorrugated iron roofs, and endless dirty, sallow children. There was a\ncemetery, I remember, with Turks\' caps stuck at the head of each grave.\nThen we got into narrow steep streets which descended to a kind of big\ncanal. I saw what I took to be mosques and minarets, and they were\nabout as impressive as factory chimneys. By and by we crossed a bridge,\nand paid a penny for the privilege. If I had known it was the famous\nGolden Horn I would have looked at it with more interest, but I saw\nnothing save a lot of moth-eaten barges and some queer little boats\nlike gondolas. Then we came into busier streets, where ramshackle cabs\ndrawn by lean horses spluttered through the mud. I saw one old fellow\nwho looked like my notion of a Turk, but most of the population had the\nappearance of London old-clothes men. All but the soldiers, Turk and\nGerman, who seemed well-set-up fellows.\n\nPeter had paddled along at my side like a faithful dog, not saying a\nword, but clearly not approving of this wet and dirty metropolis.\n\n\'Do you know that we are being followed, Cornelis?\' he said suddenly,\n\'ever since we came into this evil-smelling dorp.\'\n\nPeter was infallible in a thing like that. The news scared me badly,\nfor I feared that the telegram had come to Chataldja. Then I thought\nit couldn\'t be that, for if von Oesterzee had wanted me he wouldn\'t\nhave taken the trouble to stalk me. It was more likely my friend Rasta.\n\nI found the ferry of Ratchik by asking a soldier and a German sailor\nthere told me where the Kurdish Bazaar was. He pointed up a steep\nstreet which ran past a high block of warehouses with every window\nbroken. Sandy had said the left-hand side coming down, so it must be\nthe right-hand side going up. We plunged into it, and it was the\nfilthiest place of all. The wind whistled up it and stirred the\ngarbage. It seemed densely inhabited, for at all the doors there were\ngroups of people squatting, with their heads covered, though scarcely a\nwindow showed in the blank walls.\n\nThe street corkscrewed endlessly. Sometimes it seemed to stop; then it\nfound a hole in the opposing masonry and edged its way in. Often it was\nalmost pitch dark; then would come a greyish twilight where it opened\nout to the width of a decent lane. To find a house in that murk was no\neasy job, and by the time we had gone a quarter of a mile I began to\nfear we had missed it. It was no good asking any of the crowd we met.\nThey didn\'t look as if they understood any civilized tongue.\n\nAt last we stumbled on it--a tumble-down coffee house, with A.\nKuprasso above the door in queer amateur lettering. There was a lamp\nburning inside, and two or three men smoking at small wooden tables.\n\nWe ordered coffee, thick black stuff like treacle, which Peter\nanathematized. A negro brought it, and I told him in German I wanted\nto speak to Mr Kuprasso. He paid no attention, so I shouted louder at\nhim, and the noise brought a man out of the back parts.\n\nHe was a fat, oldish fellow with a long nose, very like the Greek\ntraders you see on the Zanzibar coast. I beckoned to him and he\nwaddled forward, smiling oilily. Then I asked him what he would take,\nand he replied, in very halting German, that he would have a sirop.\n\n\'You are Mr Kuprasso,\' I said. \'I wanted to show this place to my\nfriend. He has heard of your garden-house and the fun there.\'\n\n\'The Signor is mistaken. I have no garden-house.\'\n\n\'Rot,\' I said; \'I\'ve been here before, my boy. I recall your shanty at\nthe back and many merry nights there. What was it you called it? Oh, I\nremember--the Garden-House of Suliman the Red.\'\n\nHe put his finger to his lip and looked incredibly sly. \'The Signor\nremembers that. But that was in the old happy days before war came.\nThe place is long since shut. The people here are too poor to dance\nand sing.\'\n\n\'All the same I would like to have another look at it,\' I said, and I\nslipped an English sovereign into his hand.\n\nHe glanced at it in surprise and his manner changed. \'The Signor is a\nPrince, and I will do his will.\' He clapped his hands and the negro\nappeared, and at his nod took his place behind a little side-counter.\n\n\'Follow me,\' he said, and led us through a long, noisome passage, which\nwas pitch dark and very unevenly paved. Then he unlocked a door and\nwith a swirl the wind caught it and blew it back on us.\n\nWe were looking into a mean little yard, with on one side a high\ncurving wall, evidently of great age, with bushes growing in the cracks\nof it. Some scraggy myrtles stood in broken pots, and nettles\nflourished in a corner. At one end was a wooden building like a\ndissenting chapel, but painted a dingy scarlet. Its windows and\nskylights were black with dirt, and its door, tied up with rope,\nflapped in the wind.\n\n\'Behold the Pavilion,\' Kuprasso said proudly.\n\n\'That is the old place,\' I observed with feeling. \'What times I\'ve\nseen there! Tell me, Mr Kuprasso, do you ever open it now?\'\n\nHe put his thick lips to my ear.\n\n\'If the Signor will be silent I will tell him. It is sometimes\nopen--not often. Men must amuse themselves even in war. Some of the\nGerman officers come here for their pleasure, and but last week we had\nthe ballet of Mademoiselle Cici. The police approve--but not often,\nfor this is no time for too much gaiety. I will tell you a secret.\nTomorrow afternoon there will be dancing--wonderful dancing! Only a\nfew of my patrons know. Who, think you, will be here?\'\n\nHe bent his head closer and said in a whisper--\n\n\'The Compagnie des Heures Roses.\'\n\n\'Oh, indeed,\' I said with a proper tone of respect, though I hadn\'t a\nnotion what he meant.\n\n\'Will the Signor wish to come?\'\n\n\'Sure,\' I said. \'Both of us. We\'re all for the rosy hours.\'\n\n\'Then the fourth hour after midday. Walk straight through the cafe and\none will be there to unlock the door. You are new-comers here? Take\nthe advice of Angelo Kuprasso and avoid the streets after nightfall.\nStamboul is no safe place nowadays for quiet men.\' I asked him to name\na hotel, and he rattled off a list from which I chose one that sounded\nmodest and in keeping with our get-up. It was not far off, only a\nhundred yards to the right at the top of the hill.\n\nWhen we left his door the night had begun to drop. We hadn\'t gone\ntwenty yards before Peter drew very near to me and kept turning his\nhead like a hunted stag.\n\n\'We are being followed close, Cornelis,\' he said calmly.\n\nAnother ten yards and we were at a cross-roads, where a little _place_\nfaced a biggish mosque. I could see in the waning light a crowd of\npeople who seemed to be moving towards us. I heard a high-pitched\nvoice cry out a jabber of excited words, and it seemed to me that I had\nheard the voice before.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n\nThe Companions of the Rosy Hours\n\nWe battled to a corner, where a jut of building stood out into the\nstreet. It was our only chance to protect our backs, to stand up with\nthe rib of stone between us. It was only the work of seconds. One\ninstant we were groping our solitary way in the darkness, the next we\nwere pinned against a wall with a throaty mob surging round us.\n\nIt took me a moment or two to realize that we were attacked. Every man\nhas one special funk in the back of his head, and mine was to be the\nquarry of an angry crowd. I hated the thought of it--the mess, the\nblind struggle, the sense of unleashed passions different from those of\nany single blackguard. It was a dark world to me, and I don\'t like\ndarkness. But in my nightmares I had never imagined anything just like\nthis. The narrow, fetid street, with the icy winds fanning the filth,\nthe unknown tongue, the hoarse savage murmur, and my utter ignorance as\nto what it might all be about, made me cold in the pit of my stomach.\n\n\'We\'ve got it in the neck this time, old man,\' I said to Peter, who had\nout the pistol the commandant at Rustchuk had given him. These pistols\nwere our only weapons. The crowd saw them and hung back, but if they\nchose to rush us it wasn\'t much of a barrier two pistols would make.\n\nRasta\'s voice had stopped. He had done his work, and had retired to\nthe background. There were shouts from the crowd--\'_Alleman_\' and a\nword \'_Khafiyeh_\' constantly repeated. I didn\'t know what it meant at\nthe time, but now I know that they were after us because we were Boches\nand spies. There was no love lost between the Constantinople scum and\ntheir new masters. It seemed an ironical end for Peter and me to be\ndone in because we were Boches. And done in we should be. I had heard\nof the East as a good place for people to disappear in; there were no\ninquisitive newspapers or incorruptible police.\n\nI wished to Heaven I had a word of Turkish. But I made my voice heard\nfor a second in a pause of the din, and shouted that we were German\nsailors who had brought down big guns for Turkey, and were going home\nnext day. I asked them what the devil they thought we had done? I\ndon\'t know if any fellow there understood German; anyhow, it only\nbrought a pandemonium of cries in which that ominous word _Khafiyeh_\nwas predominant.\n\nThen Peter fired over their heads. He had to, for a chap was pawing at\nhis throat. The answer was a clatter of bullets on the wall above us.\nIt looked as if they meant to take us alive, and that I was very clear\nshould not happen. Better a bloody end in a street scrap than the\ntender mercies of that bandbox bravo.\n\nI don\'t quite know what happened next. A press drove down at me and I\nfired. Someone squealed, and I looked the next moment to be strangled.\nAnd then, suddenly, the scrimmage ceased, and there was a wavering\nsplash of light in that pit of darkness.\n\nI never went through many worse minutes than these. When I had been\nhunted in the past weeks there had been mystery enough, but no\nimmediate peril to face. When I had been up against a real, urgent,\nphysical risk, like Loos, the danger at any rate had been clear. One\nknew what one was in for. But here was a threat I couldn\'t put a name\nto, and it wasn\'t in the future, but pressing hard at our throats.\n\nAnd yet I couldn\'t feel it was quite real. The patter of the pistol\nbullets against the wall, like so many crackers, the faces felt rather\nthan seen in the dark, the clamour which to me was pure gibberish, had\nall the madness of a nightmare. Only Peter, cursing steadily in Dutch\nby my side, was real. And then the light came, and made the scene more\neerie!\n\nIt came from one or two torches carried by wild fellows with long\nstaves who drove their way into the heart of the mob. The flickering\nglare ran up the steep walls and made monstrous shadows. The wind swung\nthe flame into long streamers, dying away in a fan of sparks.\n\nAnd now a new word was heard in the crowd. It was _Chinganeh_, shouted\nnot in anger but in fear.\n\nAt first I could not see the newcomers. They were hidden in the deep\ndarkness under their canopy of light, for they were holding their\ntorches high at the full stretch of their arms. They were shouting,\ntoo, wild shrill cries ending sometimes in a gush of rapid speech.\nTheir words did not seem to be directed against us, but against the\ncrowd. A sudden hope came to me that for some unknown reason they were\non our side.\n\nThe press was no longer heavy against us. It was thinning rapidly and\nI could hear the scuffle as men made off down the side streets. My\nfirst notion was that these were the Turkish police. But I changed my\nmind when the leader came out into a patch of light. He carried no\ntorch, but a long stave with which he belaboured the heads of those who\nwere too tightly packed to flee.\n\nIt was the most eldritch apparition you can conceive. A tall man\ndressed in skins, with bare legs and sandal-shod feet. A wisp of\nscarlet cloth clung to his shoulders, and, drawn over his head down\nclose to his eyes, was a skull-cap of some kind of pelt with the tail\nwaving behind it. He capered like a wild animal, keeping up a strange\nhigh monotone that fairly gave me the creeps.\n\nI was suddenly aware that the crowd had gone. Before us was only this\nfigure and his half-dozen companions, some carrying torches and all\nwearing clothes of skin. But only the one who seemed to be their\nleader wore the skull-cap; the rest had bare heads and long tangled\nhair.\n\nThe fellow was shouting gibberish at me. His eyes were glassy, like a\nman who smokes hemp, and his legs were never still for a second. You\nwould think such a figure no better than a mountebank, and yet there\nwas nothing comic in it. Fearful and sinister and uncanny it was; and\nI wanted to do anything but laugh.\n\nAs he shouted he kept pointing with his stave up the street which\nclimbed the hillside.\n\n\'He means us to move,\' said Peter. \'For God\'s sake let us get away\nfrom this witch-doctor.\'\n\nI couldn\'t make sense of it, but one thing was clear. These maniacs\nhad delivered us for the moment from Rasta and his friends.\n\nThen I did a dashed silly thing. I pulled out a sovereign and offered\nit to the leader. I had some kind of notion of showing gratitude, and\nas I had no words I had to show it by deed.\n\nHe brought his stick down on my wrist and sent the coin spinning in the\ngutter. His eyes blazed, and he made his weapon sing round my head.\nHe cursed me--oh, I could tell cursing well enough, though I didn\'t\nfollow a word; and he cried to his followers and they cursed me too. I\nhad offered him a mortal insult and stirred up a worse hornet\'s nest\nthan Rasta\'s push.\n\nPeter and I, with a common impulse, took to our heels. We were not\nlooking for any trouble with demoniacs. Up the steep, narrow lane we\nran with that bedlamite crowd at our heels. The torches seemed to have\ngone out, for the place was black as pitch, and we tumbled over heaps\nof offal and splashed through running drains. The men were close behind\nus, and more than once I felt a stick on my shoulder. But fear lent us\nwings, and suddenly before us was a blaze of light and we saw the\ndebouchment of our street in a main thoroughfare. The others saw it,\ntoo, for they slackened off. Just before we reached the light we\nstopped and looked round. There was no sound or sight behind us in the\ndark lane which dipped to the harbour.\n\n\'This is a queer country, Cornelis,\' said Peter, feeling his limbs for\nbruises. \'Too many things happen in too short a time. I am\nbreathless.\'\n\nThe big street we had struck seemed to run along the crest of the hill.\nThere were lamps in it, and crawling cabs, and quite civilized-looking\nshops. We soon found the hotel to which Kuprasso had directed us, a\nbig place in a courtyard with a very tumble-down-looking portico, and\ngreen sun-shutters which rattled drearily in the winter\'s wind. It\nproved, as I had feared, to be packed to the door, mostly with German\nofficers. With some trouble I got an interview with the proprietor,\nthe usual Greek, and told him that we had been sent there by Mr\nKuprasso. That didn\'t affect him in the least, and we would have been\nshot into the street if I hadn\'t remembered about Stumm\'s pass.\n\nSo I explained that we had come from Germany with munitions and only\nwanted rooms for one night. I showed him the pass and blustered a good\ndeal, till he became civil and said he would do the best he could for\nus.\n\nThat best was pretty poor. Peter and I were doubled up in a small room\nwhich contained two camp-beds and little else, and had broken windows\nthrough which the wind whistled. We had a wretched dinner of stringy\nmutton, boiled with vegetables, and a white cheese strong enough to\nraise the dead. But I got a bottle of whisky, for which I paid a\nsovereign, and we managed to light the stove in our room, fasten the\nshutters, and warm our hearts with a brew of toddy. After that we went\nto bed and slept like logs for twelve hours. On the road from Rustchuk\nwe had had uneasy slumbers.\n\nI woke next morning and, looking out from the broken window, saw that\nit was snowing. With a lot of trouble I got hold of a servant and made\nhim bring us some of the treacly Turkish coffee. We were both in pretty\nlow spirits. \'Europe is a poor cold place,\' said Peter, \'not worth\nfighting for. There is only one white man\'s land, and that is South\nAfrica.\' At the time I heartily agreed with him.\n\nI remember that, sitting on the edge of my bed, I took stock of our\nposition. It was not very cheering. We seemed to have been amassing\nenemies at a furious pace. First of all, there was Rasta, whom I had\ninsulted and who wouldn\'t forget it in a hurry. He had his crowd of\nTurkish riff-raff and was bound to get us sooner or later. Then there\nwas the maniac in the skin hat. He didn\'t like Rasta, and I made a\nguess that he and his weird friends were of some party hostile to the\nYoung Turks. But, on the other hand, he didn\'t like us, and there\nwould be bad trouble the next time we met him. Finally, there was\nStumm and the German Government. It could only be a matter of hours at\nthe best before he got the Rustchuk authorities on our trail. It would\nbe easy to trace us from Chataldja, and once they had us we were\nabsolutely done. There was a big black _dossier_ against us, which by\nno conceivable piece of luck could be upset.\n\nIt was very clear to me that, unless we could find sanctuary and shed\nall our various pursuers during this day, we should be done in for good\nand all. But where on earth were we to find sanctuary? We had neither\nof us a word of the language, and there was no way I could see of\ntaking on new characters. For that we wanted friends and help, and I\ncould think of none anywhere. Somewhere, to be sure, there was\nBlenkiron, but how could we get in touch with him? As for Sandy, I had\npretty well given him up. I always thought his enterprise the craziest\nof the lot and bound to fail. He was probably somewhere in Asia Minor,\nand a month or two later would get to Constantinople and hear in some\npot-house the yarn of the two wretched Dutchmen who had disappeared so\nsoon from men\'s sight.\n\nThat rendezvous at Kuprasso\'s was no good. It would have been all\nright if we had got here unsuspected, and could have gone on quietly\nfrequenting the place till Blenkiron picked us up. But to do that we\nwanted leisure and secrecy, and here we were with a pack of hounds at\nour heels. The place was horribly dangerous already. If we showed\nourselves there we should be gathered in by Rasta, or by the German\nmilitary police, or by the madman in the skin cap. It was a stark\nimpossibility to hang about on the off-chance of meeting Blenkiron.\n\nI reflected with some bitterness that this was the 17th day of January,\nthe day of our assignation. I had had high hopes all the way down the\nDanube of meeting with Blenkiron--for I knew he would be in time--of\ngiving him the information I had had the good fortune to collect, of\npiecing it together with what he had found out, and of getting the\nwhole story which Sir Walter hungered for. After that, I thought it\nwouldn\'t be hard to get away by Rumania, and to get home through\nRussia. I had hoped to be back with my battalion in February, having\ndone as good a bit of work as anybody in the war. As it was, it looked\nas if my information would die with me, unless I could find Blenkiron\nbefore the evening.\n\nI talked the thing over with Peter, and he agreed that we were fairly\nup against it. We decided to go to Kuprasso\'s that afternoon, and to\ntrust to luck for the rest. It wouldn\'t do to wander about the\nstreets, so we sat tight in our room all morning, and swopped old\nhunting yarns to keep our minds from the beastly present. We got some\nfood at midday--cold mutton and the same cheese, and finished our\nwhisky. Then I paid the bill, for I didn\'t dare to stay there another\nnight. About half-past three we went into the street, without the\nfoggiest notion where we would find our next quarters.\n\nIt was snowing heavily, which was a piece of luck for us. Poor old\nPeter had no greatcoat, so we went into a Jew\'s shop and bought a\nready-made abomination, which looked as if it might have been meant for\na dissenting parson. It was no good saving my money when the future\nwas so black. The snow made the streets deserted, and we turned down\nthe long lane which led to Ratchik ferry, and found it perfectly quiet.\nI do not think we met a soul till we got to Kuprasso\'s shop.\n\nWe walked straight through the cafe, which was empty, and down the dark\npassage, till we were stopped by the garden door. I knocked and it\nswung open. There was the bleak yard, now puddled with snow, and a\nblaze of light from the pavilion at the other end. There was a scraping\nof fiddles, too, and the sound of human talk. We paid the negro at the\ndoor, and passed from the bitter afternoon into a garish saloon.\n\nThere were forty or fifty people there, drinking coffee and sirops and\nfilling the air with the fumes of latakia. Most of them were Turks in\nEuropean clothes and the fez, but there were some German officers and\nwhat looked like German civilians--Army Service Corps clerks, probably,\nand mechanics from the Arsenal. A woman in cheap finery was tinkling\nat the piano, and there were several shrill females with the officers.\nPeter and I sat down modestly in the nearest corner, where old Kuprasso\nsaw us and sent us coffee. A girl who looked like a Jewess came over to\nus and talked French, but I shook my head and she went off again.\n\nPresently a girl came on the stage and danced, a silly affair, all a\nclashing of tambourines and wriggling. I have seen native women do the\nsame thing better in a Mozambique kraal. Another sang a German song, a\nsimple, sentimental thing about golden hair and rainbows, and the\nGermans present applauded. The place was so tinselly and common that,\ncoming to it from weeks of rough travelling, it made me impatient. I\nforgot that, while for the others it might be a vulgar little\ndancing-hall, for us it was as perilous as a brigands\' den.\n\nPeter did not share my mood. He was quite interested in it, as he was\ninterested in everything new. He had a genius for living in the moment.\n\nI remember there was a drop-scene on which was daubed a blue lake with\nvery green hills in the distance. As the tobacco smoke grew thicker\nand the fiddles went on squealing, this tawdry picture began to\nmesmerize me. I seemed to be looking out of a window at a lovely\nsummer landscape where there were no wars or danger. I seemed to feel\nthe warm sun and to smell the fragrance of blossom from the islands.\nAnd then I became aware that a queer scent had stolen into the\natmosphere.\n\nThere were braziers burning at both ends to warm the room, and the thin\nsmoke from these smelt like incense. Somebody had been putting a\npowder in the flames, for suddenly the place became very quiet. The\nfiddles still sounded, but far away like an echo. The lights went\ndown, all but a circle on the stage, and into that circle stepped my\nenemy of the skin cap.\n\nHe had three others with him. I heard a whisper behind me, and the\nwords were those which Kuprasso had used the day before. These\nbedlamites were called the Companions of the Rosy Hours, and Kuprasso\nhad promised great dancing.\n\nI hoped to goodness they would not see us, for they had fairly given me\nthe horrors. Peter felt the same, and we both made ourselves very\nsmall in that dark corner. But the newcomers had no eyes for us.\n\nIn a twinkling the pavilion changed from a common saloon, which might\nhave been in Chicago or Paris, to a place of mystery--yes, and of\nbeauty. It became the Garden-House of Suliman the Red, whoever that\nsportsman may have been. Sandy had said that the ends of the earth\nconverged there, and he had been right. I lost all consciousness of my\nneighbours--stout German, frock-coated Turk, frowsy Jewess--and saw\nonly strange figures leaping in a circle of light, figures that came\nout of the deepest darkness to make a big magic.\n\nThe leader flung some stuff into the brazier, and a great fan of blue\nlight flared up. He was weaving circles, and he was singing something\nshrill and high, whilst his companions made a chorus with their deep\nmonotone. I can\'t tell you what the dance was. I had seen the Russian\nballet just before the war, and one of the men in it reminded me of\nthis man. But the dancing was the least part of it. It was neither\nsound nor movement nor scent that wrought the spell, but something far\nmore potent. In an instant I found myself reft away from the present\nwith its dull dangers, and looking at a world all young and fresh and\nbeautiful. The gaudy drop-scene had vanished. It was a window I was\nlooking from, and I was gazing at the finest landscape on earth, lit by\nthe pure clean light of morning.\n\nIt seemed to be part of the veld, but like no veld I had ever seen. It\nwas wider and wilder and more gracious. Indeed, I was looking at my\nfirst youth. I was feeling the kind of immortal light-heartedness\nwhich only a boy knows in the dawning of his days. I had no longer any\nfear of these magic-makers. They were kindly wizards, who had brought\nme into fairyland.\n\nThen slowly from the silence there distilled drops of music. They came\nlike water falling a long way into a cup, each the essential quality of\npure sound. We, with our elaborate harmonies, have forgotten the charm\nof single notes. The African natives know it, and I remember a learned\nman once telling me that the Greeks had the same art. Those silver\nbells broke out of infinite space, so exquisite and perfect that no\nmortal words could have been fitted to them. That was the music, I\nexpect, that the morning stars made when they sang together.\n\nSlowly, very slowly, it changed. The glow passed from blue to purple,\nand then to an angry red. Bit by bit the notes spun together till they\nhad made a harmony--a fierce, restless harmony. And I was conscious\nagain of the skin-clad dancers beckoning out of their circle.\n\nThere was no mistake about the meaning now. All the daintiness and\nyouth had fled, and passion was beating the air--terrible, savage\npassion, which belonged neither to day nor night, life nor death, but\nto the half-world between them. I suddenly felt the dancers as\nmonstrous, inhuman, devilish. The thick scents that floated from the\nbrazier seemed to have a tang of new-shed blood. Cries broke from the\nhearers--cries of anger and lust and terror. I heard a woman sob, and\nPeter, who is as tough as any mortal, took tight hold of my arm.\n\nI now realized that these Companions of the Rosy Hours were the only\nthing in the world to fear. Rasta and Stumm seemed feeble simpletons\nby contrast. The window I had been looking out of was changed to a\nprison wall--I could see the mortar between the massive blocks. In a\nsecond these devils would be smelling out their enemies like some foul\nwitch-doctors. I felt the burning eyes of their leader looking for me\nin the gloom. Peter was praying audibly beside me, and I could have\nchoked him. His infernal chatter would reveal us, for it seemed to me\nthat there was no one in the place except us and the magic-workers.\n\nThen suddenly the spell was broken. The door was flung open and a\ngreat gust of icy wind swirled through the hall, driving clouds of\nashes from the braziers. I heard loud voices without, and a hubbub\nbegan inside. For a moment it was quite dark, and then someone lit one\nof the flare lamps by the stage. It revealed nothing but the common\nsqualor of a low saloon--white faces, sleepy eyes, and frowsy heads.\nThe drop-piece was there in all its tawdriness.\n\nThe Companions of the Rosy Hours had gone. But at the door stood men\nin uniform, I heard a German a long way off murmur, \'Enver\'s\nbodyguards,\' and I heard him distinctly; for, though I could not see\nclearly, my hearing was desperately acute. That is often the way when\nyou suddenly come out of a swoon.\n\nThe place emptied like magic. Turk and German tumbled over each other,\nwhile Kuprasso wailed and wept. No one seemed to stop them, and then I\nsaw the reason. Those Guards had come for us. This must be Stumm at\nlast. The authorities had tracked us down, and it was all up with\nPeter and me.\n\nA sudden revulsion leaves a man with a low vitality. I didn\'t seem to\ncare greatly. We were done, and there was an end of it. It was\nKismet, the act of God, and there was nothing for it but to submit. I\nhadn\'t a flicker of a thought of escape or resistance. The game was\nutterly and absolutely over.\n\nA man who seemed to be a sergeant pointed to us and said something to\nKuprasso, who nodded. We got heavily to our feet and stumbled towards\nthem. With one on each side of us we crossed the yard, walked through\nthe dark passage and the empty shop, and out into the snowy street.\nThere was a closed carriage waiting which they motioned us to get into.\nIt looked exactly like the Black Maria.\n\nBoth of us sat still, like truant schoolboys, with our hands on our\nknees. I didn\'t know where I was going and I didn\'t care. We seemed\nto be rumbling up the hill, and then I caught the glare of lighted\nstreets.\n\n\'This is the end of it, Peter,\' I said.\n\n\'_Ja_, Cornelis,\' he replied, and that was all our talk.\n\nBy and by--hours later it seemed--we stopped. Someone opened the door\nand we got out, to find ourselves in a courtyard with a huge dark\nbuilding around. The prison, I guessed, and I wondered if they would\ngive us blankets, for it was perishing cold.\n\nWe entered a door, and found ourselves in a big stone hall. It was\nquite warm, which made me more hopeful about our cells. A man in some\nkind of uniform pointed to the staircase, up which we plodded wearily.\nMy mind was too blank to take clear impressions, or in any way to\nforecast the future. Another warder met us and took us down a passage\ntill we halted at a door. He stood aside and motioned us to enter.\n\nI guessed that this was the governor\'s room, and we should be put\nthrough our first examination. My head was too stupid to think, and I\nmade up my mind to keep perfectly mum. Yes, even if they tried\nthumbscrews. I had no kind of story, but I resolved not to give\nanything away. As I turned the handle I wondered idly what kind of\nsallow Turk or bulging-necked German we should find inside.\n\nIt was a pleasant room, with a polished wood floor and a big fire\nburning on the hearth. Beside the fire a man lay on a couch, with a\nlittle table drawn up beside him. On that table was a small glass of\nmilk and a number of Patience cards spread in rows.\n\nI stared blankly at the spectacle, till I saw a second figure. It was\nthe man in the skin-cap, the leader of the dancing maniacs. Both Peter\nand I backed sharply at the sight and then stood stock still.\n\nFor the dancer crossed the room in two strides and gripped both of my\nhands.\n\n\'Dick, old man,\' he cried, \'I\'m most awfully glad to see you again!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n\nFour Missionaries See Light in their Mission\n\nA spasm of incredulity, a vast relief, and that sharp joy which comes\nof reaction chased each other across my mind. I had come suddenly out\nof very black waters into an unbelievable calm. I dropped into the\nnearest chair and tried to grapple with something far beyond words.\n\n\'Sandy,\' I said, as soon as I got my breath, \'you\'re an incarnate\ndevil. You\'ve given Peter and me the fright of our lives.\'\n\n\'It was the only way, Dick. If I hadn\'t come mewing like a tom-cat at\nyour heels yesterday, Rasta would have had you long before you got to\nyour hotel. You two have given me a pretty anxious time, and it took\nsome doing to get you safe here. However, that is all over now. Make\nyourselves at home, my children.\'\n\n\'Over!\' I cried incredulously, for my wits were still wool-gathering.\n\'What place is this?\'\n\n\'You may call it my humble home\'--it was Blenkiron\'s sleek voice that\nspoke. \'We\'ve been preparing for you, Major, but it was only yesterday\nI heard of your friend.\'\n\nI introduced Peter.\n\n\'Mr Pienaar,\' said Blenkiron, \'pleased to meet you. Well, as I was\nobserving, you\'re safe enough here, but you\'ve cut it mighty fine.\nOfficially, a Dutchman called Brandt was to be arrested this afternoon\nand handed over to the German authorities. When Germany begins to\ntrouble about that Dutchman she will find difficulty in getting the\nbody; but such are the languid ways of an Oriental despotism. Meantime\nthe Dutchman will be no more. He will have ceased upon the midnight\nwithout pain, as your poet sings.\'\n\n\'But I don\'t understand,\' I stammered. \'Who arrested us?\'\n\n\'My men,\' said Sandy. \'We have a bit of a graft here, and it wasn\'t\ndifficult to manage it. Old Moellendorff will be nosing after the\nbusiness tomorrow, but he will find the mystery too deep for him. That\nis the advantage of a Government run by a pack of adventurers. But, by\nJove, Dick, we hadn\'t any time to spare. If Rasta had got you, or the\nGermans had had the job of lifting you, your goose would have been\njolly well cooked. I had some unquiet hours this morning.\'\n\nThe thing was too deep for me. I looked at Blenkiron, shuffling his\nPatience cards with his old sleepy smile, and Sandy, dressed like some\nbandit in melodrama, his lean face as brown as a nut, his bare arms all\ntattooed with crimson rings, and the fox pelt drawn tight over brow and\nears. It was still a nightmare world, but the dream was getting\npleasanter. Peter said not a word, but I could see his eyes heavy with\nhis own thoughts.\n\nBlenkiron hove himself from the sofa and waddled to a cupboard.\n\n\'You boys must be hungry,\' he said. \'My duo-denum has been giving me\nhell as usual, and I don\'t eat no more than a squirrel. But I laid in\nsome stores, for I guessed you would want to stoke up some after your\ntravels.\'\n\nHe brought out a couple of Strassburg pies, a cheese, a cold chicken, a\nloaf, and three bottles of champagne.\n\n\'Fizz,\' said Sandy rapturously. \'And a dry Heidsieck too! We\'re in\nluck, Dick, old man.\'\n\nI never ate a more welcome meal, for we had starved in that dirty\nhotel. But I had still the old feeling of the hunted, and before I\nbegan I asked about the door.\n\n\'That\'s all right,\' said Sandy. \'My fellows are on the stair and at\nthe gate. If the _Metreb_ are in possession, you may bet that other\npeople will keep off. Your past is blotted out, clean vanished away,\nand you begin tomorrow morning with a new sheet. Blenkiron\'s the man\nyou\'ve got to thank for that. He was pretty certain you\'d get here,\nbut he was also certain that you\'d arrive in a hurry with a good many\ninquirers behind you. So he arranged that you should leak away and\nstart fresh.\'\n\n\'Your name is Richard Hanau,\' Blenkiron said, \'born in Cleveland, Ohio,\nof German parentage on both sides. One of our brightest\nmining-engineers, and the apple of Guggenheim\'s eye. You arrived this\nafternoon from Constanza, and I met you at the packet. The clothes for\nthe part are in your bedroom next door. But I guess all that can wait,\nfor I\'m anxious to get to business. We\'re not here on a joy-ride,\nMajor, so I reckon we\'ll leave out the dime-novel adventures. I\'m just\ndying to hear them, but they\'ll keep. I want to know how our mutual\ninquiries have prospered.\'\n\nHe gave Peter and me cigars, and we sat ourselves in armchairs in front\nof the blaze. Sandy squatted cross-legged on the hearthrug and lit a\nfoul old briar pipe, which he extricated from some pouch among his\nskins. And so began that conversation which had never been out of my\nthoughts for four hectic weeks.\n\n\'If I presume to begin,\' said Blenkiron, \'it\'s because I reckon my\nstory is the shortest. I have to confess to you, gentlemen, that I\nhave failed.\'\n\nHe drew down the corners of his mouth till he looked a cross between a\nmusic-hall comedian and a sick child.\n\n\'If you were looking for something in the root of the hedge, you\nwouldn\'t want to scour the road in a high-speed automobile. And still\nless would you want to get a bird\'s-eye view in an aeroplane. That\nparable about fits my case. I have been in the clouds and I\'ve been\nscorching on the pikes, but what I was wanting was in the ditch all the\ntime, and I naturally missed it ... I had the wrong stunt, Major. I\nwas too high up and refined. I\'ve been processing through Europe like\nBarnum\'s Circus, and living with generals and transparencies. Not that\nI haven\'t picked up a lot of noos, and got some very interesting\nsidelights on high politics. But the thing I was after wasn\'t to be\nfound on my beat, for those that knew it weren\'t going to tell. In\nthat kind of society they don\'t get drunk and blab after their tenth\ncocktail. So I guess I\'ve no contribution to make to quieting Sir\nWalter Bullivant\'s mind, except that he\'s dead right. Yes, Sir, he has\nhit the spot and rung the bell. There is a mighty miracle-working\nproposition being floated in these parts, but the promoters are keeping\nit to themselves. They aren\'t taking in more than they can help on the\nground-floor.\'\n\nBlenkiron stopped to light a fresh cigar. He was leaner than when he\nleft London and there were pouches below his eyes. I fancy his journey\nhad not been as fur-lined as he made out. \'I\'ve found out one thing,\nand that is, that the last dream Germany will part with is the control\nof the Near East. That is what your statesmen don\'t figure enough on.\nShe\'ll give up Belgium and Alsace-Lorraine and Poland, but by God!\nshe\'ll never give up the road to Mesopotamia till you have her by the\nthroat and make her drop it. Sir Walter is a pretty bright-eyed\ncitizen, and he sees it right enough. If the worst happens, Kaiser\nwill fling overboard a lot of ballast in Europe, and it will look like\na big victory for the Allies, but he won\'t be beaten if he has the road\nto the East safe. Germany\'s like a scorpion: her sting\'s in her tail,\nand that tail stretches way down into Asia.\n\n\'I got that clear, and I also made out that it wasn\'t going to be dead\neasy for her to keep that tail healthy. Turkey\'s a bit of an anxiety,\nas you\'ll soon discover. But Germany thinks she can manage it, and I\nwon\'t say she can\'t. It depends on the hand she holds, and she reckons\nit a good one. I tried to find out, but they gave me nothing but\neyewash. I had to pretend to be satisfied, for the position of John S.\nwasn\'t so strong as to allow him to take liberties. If I asked one of\nthe highbrows he looked wise and spoke of the might of German arms and\nGerman organization and German staff-work. I used to nod my head and\nget enthusiastic about these stunts, but it was all soft soap. She has\na trick in hand--that much I know, but I\'m darned if I can put a name\nto it. I pray to God you boys have been cleverer.\'\n\nHis tone was quite melancholy, and I was mean enough to feel rather\nglad. He had been the professional with the best chance. It would be\na good joke if the amateur succeeded where the expert failed.\n\nI looked at Sandy. He filled his pipe again, and pushed back his skin\ncap from his brows. What with his long dishevelled hair, his\nhigh-boned face, and stained eyebrows he had the appearance of some mad\nmullah.\n\n\'I went straight to Smyrna,\' he said. \'It wasn\'t difficult, for you\nsee I had laid down a good many lines in former travels. I reached the\ntown as a Greek money-lender from the Fayum, but I had friends there I\ncould count on, and the same evening I was a Turkish gipsy, a member of\nthe most famous fraternity in Western Asia. I had long been a member,\nand I\'m blood-brother of the chief boss, so I stepped into the part\nready made. But I found out that the Company of the Rosy Hours was not\nwhat I had known it in 1910. Then it had been all for the Young Turks\nand reform; now it hankered after the old regime and was the last hope\nof the Orthodox. It had no use for Enver and his friends, and it did\nnot regard with pleasure the _beaux yeux_ of the Teuton. It stood for\nIslam and the old ways, and might be described as a\nConservative-Nationalist caucus. But it was uncommon powerful in the\nprovinces, and Enver and Talaat daren\'t meddle with it. The dangerous\nthing about it was that it said nothing and apparently did nothing. It\njust bided its time and took notes.\n\n\'You can imagine that this was the very kind of crowd for my purpose.\nI knew of old its little ways, for with all its orthodoxy it dabbled a\ngood deal in magic, and owed half its power to its atmosphere of the\nuncanny. The Companions could dance the heart out of the ordinary\nTurk. You saw a bit of one of our dances this afternoon, Dick--pretty\ngood, wasn\'t it? They could go anywhere, and no questions asked. They\nknew what the ordinary man was thinking, for they were the best\nintelligence department in the Ottoman Empire--far better than Enver\'s\n_Khafiyeh_. And they were popular, too, for they had never bowed the\nknee to the _Nemseh_--the Germans who are squeezing out the life-blood\nof the Osmanli for their own ends. It would have been as much as the\nlife of the Committee or its German masters was worth to lay a hand on\nus, for we clung together like leeches and we were not in the habit of\nsticking at trifles.\n\n\'Well, you may imagine it wasn\'t difficult for me to move where I\nwanted. My dress and the pass-word franked me anywhere. I travelled\nfrom Smyrna by the new railway to Panderma on the Marmora, and got\nthere just before Christmas. That was after Anzac and Suvla had been\nevacuated, but I could hear the guns going hard at Cape Helles. From\nPanderma I started to cross to Thrace in a coasting steamer. And there\nan uncommon funny thing happened--I got torpedoed.\n\n\'It must have been about the last effort of a British submarine in\nthose waters. But she got us all right. She gave us ten minutes to\ntake to the boats, and then sent the blighted old packet and a fine\ncargo of 6-inch shells to the bottom. There weren\'t many passengers,\nso it was easy enough to get ashore in the ship\'s boats. The submarine\nsat on the surface watching us, as we wailed and howled in the true\nOriental way, and I saw the captain quite close in the conning-tower.\nWho do you think it was? Tommy Elliot, who lives on the other side of\nthe hill from me at home.\n\n\'I gave Tommy the surprise of his life. As we bumped past him, I\nstarted the \"Flowers of the Forest\"--the old version--on the antique\nstringed instrument I carried, and I sang the words very plain.\nTommy\'s eyes bulged out of his head, and he shouted at me in English to\nknow who the devil I was. I replied in the broadest Scots, which no\nman in the submarine or in our boat could have understood a word of.\n\"Maister Tammy,\" I cried, \"what for wad ye skail a dacent tinkler lad\nintil a cauld sea? I\'ll gie ye your kail through the reek for this\nploy the next time I forgaither wi\' ye on the tap o\' Caerdon.\"\n\n\'Tommy spotted me in a second. He laughed till he cried, and as we\nmoved off shouted to me in the same language to \"pit a stoot hert tae a\nstey brae\". I hope to Heaven he had the sense not to tell my father,\nor the old man will have had a fit. He never much approved of my\nwanderings, and thought I was safely anchored in the battalion.\n\n\'Well, to make a long story short, I got to Constantinople, and pretty\nsoon found touch with Blenkiron. The rest you know. And now for\nbusiness. I have been fairly lucky--but no more, for I haven\'t got to\nthe bottom of the thing nor anything like it. But I\'ve solved the\nfirst of Harry Bullivant\'s riddles. I know the meaning of _Kasredin_.\n\n\'Sir Walter was right, as Blenkiron has told us. There\'s a great\nstirring in Islam, something moving on the face of the waters. They\nmake no secret of it. Those religious revivals come in cycles, and one\nwas due about now. And they are quite clear about the details. A seer\nhas arisen of the blood of the Prophet, who will restore the Khalifate\nto its old glories and Islam to its old purity. His sayings are\neverywhere in the Moslem world. All the orthodox believers have them\nby heart. That is why they are enduring grinding poverty and\npreposterous taxation, and that is why their young men are rolling up\nto the armies and dying without complaint in Gallipoli and\nTranscaucasia. They believe they are on the eve of a great deliverance.\n\n\'Now the first thing I found out was that the Young Turks had nothing\nto do with this. They are unpopular and unorthodox, and no true Turks.\nBut Germany has. How, I don\'t know, but I could see quite plainly that\nin some subtle way Germany was regarded as a collaborator in the\nmovement. It is that belief that is keeping the present regime going.\nThe ordinary Turk loathes the Committee, but he has some queer\nperverted expectation from Germany. It is not a case of Enver and the\nrest carrying on their shoulders the unpopular Teuton; it is a case of\nthe Teuton carrying the unpopular Committee. And Germany\'s graft is\njust this and nothing more--that she has some hand in the coming of the\nnew deliverer.\n\n\'They talk about the thing quite openly. It is called the\n_Kaaba-i-hurriyeh_, the Palladium of Liberty. The prophet himself is\nknown as Zimrud--\"the Emerald\"--and his four ministers are called also\nafter jewels--Sapphire, Ruby, Pearl, and Topaz. You will hear their\nnames as often in the talk of the towns and villages as you will hear\nthe names of generals in England. But no one knew where Zimrud was or\nwhen he would reveal himself, though every week came his messages to\nthe faithful. All that I could learn was that he and his followers\nwere coming from the West.\n\n\'You will say, what about _Kasredin_? That puzzled me dreadfully, for\nno one used the phrase. The Home of the Spirit! It is an obvious\ncliche, just as in England some new sect might call itself the Church\nof Christ. Only no one seemed to use it.\n\n\'But by and by I discovered that there was an inner and an outer circle\nin this mystery. Every creed has an esoteric side which is kept from\nthe common herd. I struck this side in Constantinople. Now there is a\nvery famous Turkish _shaka_ called _Kasredin_, one of those old\nhalf-comic miracle plays with an allegorical meaning which they call\n_orta oyun_, and which take a week to read. That tale tells of the\ncoming of a prophet, and I found that the select of the faith spoke of\nthe new revelation in terms of it. The curious thing is that in that\ntale the prophet is aided by one of the few women who play much part in\nthe hagiology of Islam. That is the point of the tale, and it is\npartly a jest, but mainly a religious mystery. The prophet, too, is\nnot called Emerald.\'\n\n\'I know,\' I said; \'he is called Greenmantle.\'\n\nSandy scrambled to his feet, letting his pipe drop in the fireplace.\n\n\'Now how on earth did you find out that?\' he cried.\n\nThen I told them of Stumm and Gaudian and the whispered words I had not\nbeen meant to hear. Blenkiron was giving me the benefit of a steady\nstare, unusual from one who seemed always to have his eyes abstracted,\nand Sandy had taken to ranging up and down the room.\n\n\'Germany\'s in the heart of the plan. That is what I always thought.\nIf we\'re to find the _Kaaba-i-hurriyeh_ it is no good fossicking among\nthe Committee or in the Turkish provinces. The secret\'s in Germany.\nDick, you should not have crossed the Danube.\'\n\n\'That\'s what I half feared,\' I said. \'But on the other hand it is\nobvious that the thing must come east, and sooner rather than later. I\ntake it they can\'t afford to delay too long before they deliver the\ngoods. If we can stick it out here we must hit the trail ... I\'ve got\nanother bit of evidence. I have solved Harry Bullivant\'s third puzzle.\'\n\nSandy\'s eyes were very bright and I had an audience on wires.\n\n\'Did you say that in the tale of _Kasredin_ a woman is the ally of the\nprophet?\'\n\n\'Yes,\' said Sandy; \'what of that?\'\n\n\'Only that the same thing is true of Greenmantle. I can give you her\nname.\'\n\nI fetched a piece of paper and a pencil from Blenkiron\'s desk and\nhanded it to Sandy.\n\n\'Write down Harry Bullivant\'s third word.\'\n\nHe promptly wrote down \'_v. I._\'\n\nThen I told them of the other name Stumm and Gaudian had spoken. I\ntold of my discovery as I lay in the woodman\'s cottage.\n\n\'The \"I\" is not the letter of the alphabet, but the numeral. The name\nis Von Einem--Hilda von Einem.\'\n\n\'Good old Harry,\' said Sandy softly. \'He was a dashed clever chap.\nHilda von Einem? Who and where is she? for if we find her we have\ndone the trick.\'\n\nThen Blenkiron spoke. \'I reckon I can put you wise on that,\ngentlemen,\' he said. \'I saw her no later than yesterday. She is a\nlovely lady. She happens also to be the owner of this house.\'\n\nBoth Sandy and I began to laugh. It was too comic to have stumbled\nacross Europe and lighted on the very headquarters of the puzzle we had\nset out to unriddle.\n\nBut Blenkiron did not laugh. At the mention of Hilda von Einem he had\nsuddenly become very solemn, and the sight of his face pulled me up\nshort.\n\n\'I don\'t like it, gentlemen,\' he said. \'I would rather you had\nmentioned any other name on God\'s earth. I haven\'t been long in this\ncity, but I have been long enough to size up the various political\nbosses. They haven\'t much to them. I reckon they wouldn\'t stand up\nagainst what we could show them in the U-nited States. But I have met\nthe Frau von Einem, and that lady\'s a very different proposition. The\nman that will understand her has got to take a biggish size in hats.\'\n\n\'Who is she?\' I asked.\n\n\'Why, that is just what I can\'t tell you. She was a great excavator of\nBabylonish and Hittite ruins, and she married a diplomat who went to\nglory three years back. It isn\'t what she has been, but what she is,\nand that\'s a mighty clever woman.\'\n\nBlenkiron\'s respect did not depress me. I felt as if at last we had\ngot our job narrowed to a decent compass, for I had hated casting about\nin the dark. I asked where she lived.\n\n\'That I don\'t know,\' said Blenkiron. \'You won\'t find people unduly\nanxious to gratify your natural curiosity about Frau von Einem.\'\n\n\'I can find that out,\' said Sandy. \'That\'s the advantage of having a\npush like mine. Meantime, I\'ve got to clear, for my day\'s work isn\'t\nfinished. Dick, you and Peter must go to bed at once.\'\n\n\'Why?\' I asked in amazement. Sandy spoke like a medical adviser.\n\n\'Because I want your clothes--the things you\'ve got on now. I\'ll take\nthem off with me and you\'ll never see them again.\'\n\n\'You\'ve a queer taste in souvenirs,\' I said.\n\n\'Say rather the Turkish police. The current in the Bosporus is pretty\nstrong, and these sad relics of two misguided Dutchmen will be washed\nup tomorrow about Seraglio Point. In this game you must drop the\ncurtain neat and pat at the end of each Scene, if you don\'t want\ntrouble later with the missing heir and the family lawyer.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\nI Move in Good Society\n\nI walked out of that house next morning with Blenkiron\'s arm in mine, a\ndifferent being from the friendless creature who had looked vainly the\nday before for sanctuary. To begin with, I was splendidly dressed. I\nhad a navy-blue suit with square padded shoulders, a neat black\nbow-tie, shoes with a hump at the toe, and a brown bowler. Over that I\nwore a greatcoat lined with wolf fur. I had a smart malacca cane, and\none of Blenkiron\'s cigars in my mouth. Peter had been made to trim his\nbeard, and, dressed in unassuming pepper-and-salt, looked with his\ndocile eyes and quiet voice a very respectable servant. Old Blenkiron\nhad done the job in style, for, if you\'ll believe it, he had brought\nthe clothes all the way from London. I realized now why he and Sandy\nhad been fossicking in my wardrobe. Peter\'s suit had been of Sandy\'s\nprocuring, and it was not the fit of mine. I had no difficulty about\nthe accent. Any man brought up in the colonies can get his tongue\nround American, and I flattered myself I made a very fair shape at the\nlingo of the Middle West.\n\nThe wind had gone to the south and the snow was melting fast. There was\na blue sky above Asia, and away to the north masses of white cloud\ndrifting over the Black Sea. What had seemed the day before the\ndingiest of cities now took on a strange beauty, the beauty of\nunexpected horizons and tongues of grey water winding below\ncypress-studded shores. A man\'s temper has a lot to do with his\nappreciation of scenery. I felt a free man once more, and could use my\neyes.\n\nThat street was a jumble of every nationality on earth. There were\nTurkish regulars in their queer conical khaki helmets, and wild-looking\nlevies who had no kin with Europe. There were squads of Germans in\nflat forage-caps, staring vacantly at novel sights, and quick to salute\nany officer on the side-walk. Turks in closed carriages passed, and\nTurks on good Arab horses, and Turks who looked as if they had come out\nof the Ark. But it was the rabble that caught the eye--very wild,\npinched, miserable rabble. I never in my life saw such swarms of\nbeggars, and you walked down that street to the accompaniment of\nentreaties for alms in all the tongues of the Tower of Babel.\nBlenkiron and I behaved as if we were interested tourists. We would\nstop and laugh at one fellow and give a penny to a second, passing\ncomments in high-pitched Western voices.\n\nWe went into a cafe and had a cup of coffee. A beggar came in and\nasked alms. Hitherto Blenkiron\'s purse had been closed, but now he\ntook out some small nickels and planked five down on the table. The\nman cried down blessings and picked up three. Blenkiron very swiftly\nswept the other two into his pocket.\n\nThat seemed to me queer, and I remarked that I had never before seen a\nbeggar who gave change. Blenkiron said nothing, and presently we moved\non and came to the harbour-side.\n\nThere were a number of small tugs moored alongside, and one or two\nbigger craft--fruit boats, I judged, which used to ply in the Aegean.\nThey looked pretty well moth-eaten from disuse. We stopped at one of\nthem and watched a fellow in a blue nightcap splicing ropes. He raised\nhis eyes once and looked at us, and then kept on with his business.\n\nBlenkiron asked him where he came from, but he shook his head, not\nunderstanding the tongue. A Turkish policeman came up and stared at us\nsuspiciously, till Blenkiron opened his coat, as if by accident, and\ndisplayed a tiny square of ribbon, at which he saluted. Failing to make\nconversation with the sailor, Blenkiron flung him three of his black\ncigars.\n\n\'I guess you can smoke, friend, if you can\'t talk,\' he said.\n\nThe man turned and caught the three neatly in the air. Then to my\namazement he tossed one of them back.\n\nThe donor regarded it quizzically as it lay on the pavement.\n\'That boy\'s a connoisseur of tobacco,\' he said. As we moved away I saw\nthe Turkish policeman pick it up and put it inside his cap.\n\nWe returned by the long street on the crest of the hill. There was a\nman selling oranges on a tray, and Blenkiron stopped to look at them. I\nnoticed that the man shuffled fifteen into a cluster. Blenkiron felt\nthe oranges, as if to see that they were sound, and pushed two aside.\nThe man instantly restored them to the group, never raising his eyes.\n\n\'This ain\'t the time of year to buy fruit,\' said Blenkiron as we passed\non. \'Those oranges are rotten as medlars.\'\n\nWe were almost on our own doorstep before I guessed the meaning of the\nbusiness.\n\n\'Is your morning\'s work finished?\' I said.\n\n\'Our morning\'s walk?\' he asked innocently.\n\n\'I said \"work\".\'\n\nHe smiled blandly. \'I reckoned you\'d tumble to it. Why, yes, except\nthat I\'ve some figuring still to do. Give me half an hour and I\'ll be\nat your service, Major.\'\n\nThat afternoon, after Peter had cooked a wonderfully good luncheon, I\nhad a heart-to-heart talk with Blenkiron.\n\n\'My business is to get noos,\' he said; \'and before I start on a stunt I\nmake considerable preparations. All the time in London when I was\nyelping at the British Government, I was busy with Sir Walter arranging\nthings ahead. We used to meet in queer places and at all hours of the\nnight. I fixed up a lot of connections in this city before I arrived,\nand especially a noos service with your Foreign Office by way of\nRumania and Russia. In a day or two I guess our friends will know all\nabout our discoveries.\'\n\nAt that I opened my eyes very wide.\n\n\'Why, yes. You Britishers haven\'t any notion how wide-awake your\nIntelligence Service is. I reckon it\'s easy the best of all the\nbelligerents. You never talked about it in peace time, and you shunned\nthe theatrical ways of the Teuton. But you had the wires laid good and\nsure. I calculate there isn\'t much that happens in any corner of the\nearth that you don\'t know within twenty-four hours. I don\'t say your\nhighbrows use the noos well. I don\'t take much stock in your political\npush. They\'re a lot of silver-tongues, no doubt, but it ain\'t oratory\nthat is wanted in this racket. The William Jennings Bryan stunt\nlanguishes in war-time. Politics is like a chicken-coop, and those\ninside get to behave as if their little run were all the world. But if\nthe politicians make mistakes it isn\'t from lack of good instruction to\nguide their steps. If I had a big proposition to handle and could have\nmy pick of helpers I\'d plump for the Intelligence Department of the\nBritish Admiralty. Yes, Sir, I take off my hat to your Government\nsleuths.\'\n\n\'Did they provide you with ready-made spies here?\' I asked in\nastonishment.\n\n\'Why, no,\' he said. \'But they gave me the key, and I could make my own\narrangements. In Germany I buried myself deep in the local atmosphere\nand never peeped out. That was my game, for I was looking for\nsomething in Germany itself, and didn\'t want any foreign\ncross-bearings. As you know, I failed where you succeeded. But so soon\nas I crossed the Danube I set about opening up my lines of\ncommunication, and I hadn\'t been two days in this metropolis before I\nhad got my telephone exchange buzzing. Sometime I\'ll explain the thing\nto you, for it\'s a pretty little business. I\'ve got the cutest cypher\n... No, it ain\'t my invention. It\'s your Government\'s. Any one,\nbabe, imbecile, or dotard, can carry my messages--you saw some of them\ntoday--but it takes some mind to set the piece, and it takes a lot of\nfiguring at my end to work out the results. Some day you shall hear it\nall, for I guess it would please you.\'\n\n\'How do you use it?\' I asked.\n\n\'Well, I get early noos of what is going on in this cabbage-patch.\nLikewise I get authentic noos of the rest of Europe, and I can send a\nmessage to Mr X. in Petrograd and Mr Y. in London, or, if I wish, to\nMr Z. in Noo York. What\'s the matter with that for a post-office?\nI\'m the best informed man in Constantinople, for old General Liman only\nhears one side, and mostly lies at that, and Enver prefers not to\nlisten at all. Also, I could give them points on what is happening at\ntheir very door, for our friend Sandy is a big boss in the best-run\ncrowd of mountebanks that ever fiddled secrets out of men\'s hearts.\nWithout their help I wouldn\'t have cut much ice in this city.\'\n\n\'I want you to tell me one thing, Blenkiron,\' I said. \'I\'ve been\nplaying a part for the past month, and it wears my nerves to tatters.\nIs this job very tiring, for if it is, I doubt I may buckle up.\'\n\nHe looked thoughtful. \'I can\'t call our business an absolute rest-cure\nany time. You\'ve got to keep your eyes skinned, and there\'s always the\nrisk of the little packet of dynamite going off unexpected. But as\nthese things go, I rate this stunt as easy. We\'ve only got to be\nnatural. We wear our natural clothes, and talk English, and sport a\nTeddy Roosevelt smile, and there isn\'t any call for theatrical talent.\nWhere I\'ve found the job tight was when I had got to be natural, and my\nnaturalness was the same brand as that of everybody round about, and\nall the time I had to do unnatural things. It isn\'t easy to be going\ndown town to business and taking cocktails with Mr Carl Rosenheim, and\nnext hour being engaged trying to blow Mr Rosenheim\'s friends\nsky-high. And it isn\'t easy to keep up a part which is clean outside\nyour ordinary life. I\'ve never tried that. My line has always been to\nkeep my normal personality. But you have, Major, and I guess you found\nit wearing.\'\n\n\'Wearing\'s a mild word,\' I said. \'But I want to know another thing.\nIt seems to me that the line you\'ve picked is as good as could be. But\nit\'s a cast-iron line. It commits us pretty deep and it won\'t be a\nsimple job to drop it.\'\n\n\'Why, that\'s just the point I was coming to,\' he said. \'I was going to\nput you wise about that very thing. When I started out I figured on\nsome situation like this. I argued that unless I had a very clear part\nwith a big bluff in it I wouldn\'t get the confidences which I needed.\nWe\'ve got to be at the heart of the show, taking a real hand and not\njust looking on. So I settled I would be a big engineer--there was a\ntime when there weren\'t many bigger in the United States than John S.\nBlenkiron. I talked large about what might be done in Mesopotamia in\nthe way of washing the British down the river. Well, that talk caught\non. They knew of my reputation as an hydraulic expert, and they were\ntickled to death to rope me in. I told them I wanted a helper, and I\ntold them about my friend Richard Hanau, as good a German as ever\nsupped sauerkraut, who was coming through Russia and Rumania as a\nbenevolent neutral; but when he got to Constantinople would drop his\nneutrality and double his benevolence. They got reports on you by wire\nfrom the States--I arranged that before I left London. So you\'re going\nto be welcomed and taken to their bosoms just like John S. was. We\'ve\nboth got jobs we can hold down, and now you\'re in these pretty clothes\nyou\'re the dead ringer of the brightest kind of American engineer ...\nBut we can\'t go back on our tracks. If we wanted to leave for\nConstanza next week they\'d be very polite, but they\'d never let us.\nWe\'ve got to go on with this adventure and nose our way down into\nMesopotamia, hoping that our luck will hold ... God knows how we will\nget out of it; but it\'s no good going out to meet trouble. As I\nobserved before, I believe in an all-wise and beneficent Providence,\nbut you\'ve got to give him a chance.\'\n\nI am bound to confess the prospect staggered me. We might be let in\nfor fighting--and worse than fighting--against our own side. I wondered\nif it wouldn\'t be better to make a bolt for it, and said so.\n\nHe shook his head. \'I reckon not. In the first place we haven\'t\nfinished our inquiries. We\'ve got Greenmantle located right enough,\nthanks to you, but we still know mighty little about that holy man. In\nthe second place it won\'t be as bad as you think. This show lacks\ncohesion, Sir. It is not going to last for ever. I calculate that\nbefore you and I strike the site of the garden that Adam and Eve\nfrequented there will be a queer turn of affairs. Anyhow, it\'s good\nenough to gamble on.\'\n\nThen he got some sheets of paper and drew me a plan of the dispositions\nof the Turkish forces. I had no notion he was such a close student of\nwar, for his exposition was as good as a staff lecture. He made out\nthat the situation was none too bright anywhere. The troops released\nfrom Gallipoli wanted a lot of refitment, and would be slow in reaching\nthe Transcaucasian frontier, where the Russians were threatening. The\nArmy of Syria was pretty nearly a rabble under the lunatic Djemal.\nThere wasn\'t the foggiest chance of a serious invasion of Egypt being\nundertaken. Only in Mesopotamia did things look fairly cheerful, owing\nto the blunders of British strategy. \'And you may take it from me,\' he\nsaid, \'that if the old Turk mobilized a total of a million men, he has\nlost 40 per cent of them already. And if I\'m anything of a prophet\nhe\'s going pretty soon to lose more.\'\n\nHe tore up the papers and enlarged on politics. \'I reckon I\'ve got the\nmeasure of the Young Turks and their precious Committee. Those boys\naren\'t any good. Enver\'s bright enough, and for sure he\'s got sand.\nHe\'ll stick out a fight like a Vermont game-chicken, but he lacks the\nlarger vision, Sir. He doesn\'t understand the intricacies of the job\nno more than a sucking-child, so the Germans play with him, till his\ntemper goes and he bucks like a mule. Talaat is a sulky dog who wants\nto batter mankind with a club. Both these boys would have made good\ncow-punchers in the old days, and they might have got a living out West\nas the gun-men of a Labour Union. They\'re about the class of Jesse\nJames or Billy the Kid, excepting that they\'re college-reared and can\npatter languages. But they haven\'t the organizing power to manage the\nIrish vote in a ward election. Their one notion is to get busy with\ntheir firearms, and people are getting tired of the Black Hand stunt.\nTheir hold on the country is just the hold that a man with a Browning\nhas over a crowd with walking-sticks. The cooler heads in the\nCommittee are growing shy of them, and an old fox like David is lying\nlow till his time comes. Now it doesn\'t want arguing that a gang of\nthat kind has got to hang close together or they may hang separately.\nThey\'ve got no grip on the ordinary Turk, barring the fact that they\nare active and he is sleepy, and that they\'ve got their guns loaded.\'\n\n\'What about the Germans here?\' I asked.\n\nBlenkiron laughed. \'It is no sort of a happy family. But the Young\nTurks know that without the German boost they\'ll be strung up like\nHaman, and the Germans can\'t afford to neglect an ally. Consider what\nwould happen if Turkey got sick of the game and made a separate peace.\nThe road would be open for Russia to the Aegean. Ferdy of Bulgaria\nwould take his depreciated goods to the other market, and not waste a\nday thinking about it. You\'d have Rumania coming in on the Allies\'\nside. Things would look pretty black for that control of the Near East\non which Germany has banked her winnings. Kaiser says that\'s got to be\nprevented at all costs, but how is it going to be done?\'\n\nBlenkiron\'s face had become very solemn again. \'It won\'t be done\nunless Germany\'s got a trump card to play. Her game\'s mighty near\nbust, but it\'s still got a chance. And that chance is a woman and an\nold man. I reckon our landlady has a bigger brain than Enver and\nLiman. She\'s the real boss of the show. When I came here, I reported\nto her, and presently you\'ve got to do the same. I am curious as to\nhow she\'ll strike you, for I\'m free to admit that she impressed me\nconsiderable.\'\n\n\'It looks as if our job were a long way from the end,\' I said.\n\n\'It\'s scarcely begun,\' said Blenkiron.\n\nThat talk did a lot to cheer my spirits, for I realized that it was the\nbiggest of big game we were hunting this time. I\'m an economical soul,\nand if I\'m going to be hanged I want a good stake for my neck.\n\nThen began some varied experiences. I used to wake up in the morning,\nwondering where I should be at night, and yet quite pleased at the\nuncertainty. Greenmantle became a sort of myth with me. Somehow I\ncouldn\'t fix any idea in my head of what he was like. The nearest I\ngot was a picture of an old man in a turban coming out of a bottle in a\ncloud of smoke, which I remembered from a child\'s edition of the\n_Arabian Nights_. But if he was dim, the lady was dimmer. Sometimes I\nthought of her as a fat old German crone, sometimes as a harsh-featured\nwoman like a schoolmistress with thin lips and eyeglasses. But I had\nto fit the East into the picture, so I made her young and gave her a\ntouch of the languid houri in a veil. I was always wanting to pump\nBlenkiron on the subject, but he shut up like a rat-trap. He was\nlooking for bad trouble in that direction, and was disinclined to speak\nabout it beforehand.\n\nWe led a peaceful existence. Our servants were two of Sandy\'s lot, for\nBlenkiron had very rightly cleared out the Turkish caretakers, and they\nworked like beavers under Peter\'s eye, till I reflected I had never\nbeen so well looked after in my life. I walked about the city with\nBlenkiron, keeping my eyes open, and speaking very civil. The third\nnight we were bidden to dinner at Moellendorff\'s, so we put on our best\nclothes and set out in an ancient cab. Blenkiron had fetched a dress\nsuit of mine, from which my own tailor\'s label had been cut and a New\nYork one substituted.\n\nGeneral Liman and Metternich the Ambassador had gone up the line to\nNish to meet the Kaiser, who was touring in those parts, so\nMoellendorff was the biggest German in the city. He was a thin,\nfoxy-faced fellow, cleverish but monstrously vain, and he was not very\npopular either with the Germans or the Turks. He was polite to both of\nus, but I am bound to say that I got a bad fright when I entered the\nroom, for the first man I saw was Gaudian. I doubt if he would have\nrecognized me even in the clothes I had worn in Stumm\'s company, for\nhis eyesight was wretched. As it was, I ran no risk in dress-clothes,\nwith my hair brushed back and a fine American accent. I paid him high\ncompliments as a fellow engineer, and translated part of a very\ntechnical conversation between him and Blenkiron. Gaudian was in\nuniform, and I liked the look of his honest face better than ever.\n\nBut the great event was the sight of Enver. He was a slim fellow of\nRasta\'s build, very foppish and precise in his dress, with a smooth\noval face like a girl\'s, and rather fine straight black eyebrows. He\nspoke perfect German, and had the best kind of manners, neither pert\nnor overbearing. He had a pleasant trick, too, of appealing all round\nthe table for confirmation, and so bringing everybody into the talk.\nNot that he spoke a great deal, but all he said was good sense, and he\nhad a smiling way of saying it. Once or twice he ran counter to\nMoellendorff, and I could see there was no love lost between these two.\nI didn\'t think I wanted him as a friend--he was too cold-blooded and\nartificial; and I was pretty certain that I didn\'t want those steady\nblack eyes as an enemy. But it was no good denying his quality. The\nlittle fellow was all cold courage, like the fine polished blue steel\nof a sword.\n\nI fancy I was rather a success at that dinner. For one thing I could\nspeak German, and so had a pull on Blenkiron. For another I was in a\ngood temper, and really enjoyed putting my back into my part. They\ntalked very high-flown stuff about what they had done and were going to\ndo, and Enver was great on Gallipoli. I remember he said that he could\nhave destroyed the whole British Army if it hadn\'t been for somebody\'s\ncold feet--at which Moellendorff looked daggers. They were so bitter\nabout Britain and all her works that I gathered they were getting\npretty panicky, and that made me as jolly as a sandboy. I\'m afraid I\nwas not free from bitterness myself on that subject. I said things\nabout my own country that I sometimes wake in the night and sweat to\nthink of.\n\nGaudian got on to the use of water power in war, and that gave me a\nchance.\n\n\'In my country,\' I said, \'when we want to get rid of a mountain we wash\nit away. There\'s nothing on earth that will stand against water. Now,\nspeaking with all respect, gentlemen, and as an absolute novice in the\nmilitary art, I sometimes ask why this God-given weapon isn\'t more used\nin the present war. I haven\'t been to any of the fronts, but I\'ve\nstudied them some from maps and the newspapers. Take your German\nposition in Flanders, where you\'ve got the high ground. If I were a\nBritish general I reckon I would very soon make it no sort of position.\'\n\nMoellendorff asked, \'How?\'\n\n\'Why, I\'d wash it away. Wash away the fourteen feet of soil down to\nthe stone. There\'s a heap of coalpits behind the British front where\nthey could generate power, and I judge there\'s ample water supply from\nthe rivers and canals. I\'d guarantee to wash you away in twenty-four\nhours--yes, in spite of all your big guns. It beats me why the British\nhaven\'t got on to this notion. They used to have some bright\nengineers.\'\n\nEnver was on the point like a knife, far quicker than Gaudian. He\ncross-examined me in a way that showed he knew how to approach a\ntechnical subject, though he mightn\'t have much technical knowledge.\nHe was just giving me a sketch of the flooding in Mesopotamia when an\naide-de-camp brought in a chit which fetched him to his feet.\n\n\'I have gossiped long enough,\' he said. \'My kind host, I must leave\nyou. Gentlemen all, my apologies and farewells.\'\n\nBefore he left he asked my name and wrote it down. \'This is an\nunhealthy city for strangers, Mr Hanau,\' he said in very good English.\n\'I have some small power of protecting a friend, and what I have is at\nyour disposal.\' This with the condescension of a king promising his\nfavour to a subject.\n\nThe little fellow amused me tremendously, and rather impressed me too.\nI said so to Gaudian after he had left, but that decent soul didn\'t\nagree.\n\n\'I do not love him,\' he said. \'We are allies--yes; but friends--no. He\nis no true son of Islam, which is a noble faith and despises liars and\nboasters and betrayers of their salt.\'\n\nThat was the verdict of one honest man on this ruler in Israel. The\nnext night I got another from Blenkiron on a greater than Enver. He had\nbeen out alone and had come back pretty late, with his face grey and\ndrawn with pain. The food we ate--not at all bad of its kind--and the\ncold east wind played havoc with his dyspepsia. I can see him yet,\nboiling milk on a spirit-lamp, while Peter worked at a Primus stove to\nget him a hot-water bottle. He was using horrid language about his\ninside.\n\n\'My God, Major, if I were you with a sound stomach I\'d fairly conquer\nthe world. As it is, I\'ve got to do my work with half my mind, while\nthe other half is dwelling in my intestines. I\'m like the child in the\nBible that had a fox gnawing at its vitals.\'\n\nHe got his milk boiling and began to sip it.\n\n\'I\'ve been to see our pretty landlady,\' he said. \'She sent for me and\nI hobbled off with a grip full of plans, for she\'s mighty set on\nMesopotamy.\'\n\n\'Anything about Greenmantle?\' I asked eagerly.\n\n\'Why, no, but I have reached one conclusion. I opine that the hapless\nprophet has no sort of time with that lady. I opine that he will soon\nwish himself in Paradise. For if Almighty God ever created a female\ndevil it\'s Madame von Einem.\'\n\nHe sipped a little more milk with a grave face.\n\n\'That isn\'t my duodenal dyspepsia, Major. It\'s the verdict of a ripe\nexperience, for I have a cool and penetrating judgement, even if I\'ve a\nderanged stomach. And I give it as my considered conclusion that that\nwoman\'s mad and bad--but principally bad.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\nThe Lady of the Mantilla\n\nSince that first night I had never clapped eyes on Sandy. He had gone\nclean out of the world, and Blenkiron and I waited anxiously for a word\nof news. Our own business was in good trim, for we were presently\ngoing east towards Mesopotamia, but unless we learned more about\nGreenmantle our journey would be a grotesque failure. And learn about\nGreenmantle we could not, for nobody by word or deed suggested his\nexistence, and it was impossible of course for us to ask questions.\nOur only hope was Sandy, for what we wanted to know was the prophet\'s\nwhereabouts and his plans. I suggested to Blenkiron that we might do\nmore to cultivate Frau von Einem, but he shut his jaw like a rat-trap.\n\n\'There\'s nothing doing for us in that quarter,\' he said. \'That\'s the\nmost dangerous woman on earth; and if she got any kind of notion that\nwe were wise about her pet schemes I reckon you and I would very soon\nbe in the Bosporus.\'\n\nThis was all very well; but what was going to happen if the two of us\nwere bundled off to Baghdad with instructions to wash away the British?\nOur time was getting pretty short, and I doubted if we could spin out\nmore than three days more in Constantinople. I felt just as I had felt\nwith Stumm that last night when I was about to be packed off to Cairo\nand saw no way of avoiding it. Even Blenkiron was getting anxious. He\nplayed Patience incessantly, and was disinclined to talk. I tried to\nfind out something from the servants, but they either knew nothing or\nwouldn\'t speak--the former, I think. I kept my eyes lifting, too, as I\nwalked about the streets, but there was no sign anywhere of the skin\ncoats or the weird stringed instruments. The whole Company of the Rosy\nHours seemed to have melted into the air, and I began to wonder if they\nhad ever existed.\n\nAnxiety made me restless, and restlessness made me want exercise. It\nwas no good walking about the city. The weather had become foul again,\nand I was sick of the smells and the squalor and the flea-bitten\ncrowds. So Blenkiron and I got horses, Turkish cavalry mounts with\nheads like trees, and went out through the suburbs into the open\ncountry.\n\nIt was a grey drizzling afternoon, with the beginnings of a sea fog\nwhich hid the Asiatic shores of the straits. It wasn\'t easy to find\nopen ground for a gallop, for there were endless small patches of\ncultivation and the gardens of country houses. We kept on the high\nland above the sea, and when we reached a bit of downland came on\nsquads of Turkish soldiers digging trenches. Whenever we let the\nhorses go we had to pull up sharp for a digging party or a stretch of\nbarbed wire. Coils of the beastly thing were lying loose everywhere,\nand Blenkiron nearly took a nasty toss over one. Then we were always\nbeing stopped by sentries and having to show our passes. Still the\nride did us good and shook up our livers, and by the time we turned for\nhome I was feeling more like a white man.\n\nWe jogged back in the short winter twilight, past the wooded grounds of\nwhite villas, held up every few minutes by transport-wagons and\ncompanies of soldiers. The rain had come on in real earnest, and it\nwas two very bedraggled horsemen that crawled along the muddy lanes.\nAs we passed one villa, shut in by a high white wall, a pleasant smell\nof wood smoke was wafted towards us, which made me sick for the burning\nveld. My ear, too, caught the twanging of a zither, which somehow\nreminded me of the afternoon in Kuprasso\'s garden-house.\n\nI pulled up and proposed to investigate, but Blenkiron very testily\ndeclined.\n\n\'Zithers are as common here as fleas,\' he said. \'You don\'t want to be\nfossicking around somebody\'s stables and find a horse-boy entertaining\nhis friends. They don\'t like visitors in this country; and you\'ll be\nasking for trouble if you go inside those walls. I guess it\'s some old\nBuzzard\'s harem.\' Buzzard was his own private peculiar name for the\nTurk, for he said he had had as a boy a natural history book with a\npicture of a bird called the turkey-buzzard, and couldn\'t get out of\nthe habit of applying it to the Ottoman people.\n\nI wasn\'t convinced, so I tried to mark down the place. It seemed to be\nabout three miles out from the city, at the end of a steep lane on the\ninland side of the hill coming from the Bosporus. I fancied somebody\nof distinction lived there, for a little farther on we met a big empty\nmotor-car snorting its way up, and I had a notion that the car belonged\nto the walled villa.\n\nNext day Blenkiron was in grievous trouble with his dyspepsia. About\nmidday he was compelled to lie down, and having nothing better to do I\nhad out the horses again and took Peter with me. It was funny to see\nPeter in a Turkish army-saddle, riding with the long Boer stirrup and\nthe slouch of the backveld.\n\nThat afternoon was unfortunate from the start. It was not the mist and\ndrizzle of the day before, but a stiff northern gale which blew sheets\nof rain in our faces and numbed our bridle hands. We took the same\nroad, but pushed west of the trench-digging parties and got to a\nshallow valley with a white village among the cypresses. Beyond that\nthere was a very respectable road which brought us to the top of a\ncrest that in clear weather must have given a fine prospect. Then we\nturned our horses, and I shaped our course so as to strike the top of\nthe long lane that abutted on the down. I wanted to investigate the\nwhite villa.\n\nBut we hadn\'t gone far on our road back before we got into trouble. It\narose out of a sheep-dog, a yellow mongrel brute that came at us like a\nthunderbolt. It took a special fancy to Peter, and bit savagely at his\nhorse\'s heels and sent it capering off the road. I should have warned\nhim, but I did not realize what was happening, till too late. For\nPeter, being accustomed to mongrels in Kaffir kraals, took a summary\nway with the pest. Since it despised his whip, he out with his pistol\nand put a bullet through its head.\n\nThe echoes of the shot had scarcely died away when the row began. A\nbig fellow appeared running towards us, shouting wildly. I guessed he\nwas the dog\'s owner, and proposed to pay no attention. But his cries\nsummoned two other fellows--soldiers by the look of them--who closed in\non us, unslinging their rifles as they ran. My first idea was to show\nthem our heels, but I had no desire to be shot in the back, and they\nlooked like men who wouldn\'t stop short of shooting. So we slowed down\nand faced them.\n\nThey made as savage-looking a trio as you would want to avoid. The\nshepherd looked as if he had been dug up, a dirty ruffian with matted\nhair and a beard like a bird\'s nest. The two soldiers stood staring\nwith sullen faces, fingering their guns, while the other chap raved and\nstormed and kept pointing at Peter, whose mild eyes stared unwinkingly\nat his assailant.\n\nThe mischief was that neither of us had a word of Turkish. I tried\nGerman, but it had no effect. We sat looking at them and they stood\nstorming at us, and it was fast getting dark. Once I turned my horse\nround as if to proceed, and the two soldiers jumped in front of me.\n\nThey jabbered among themselves, and then one said very slowly: \'He ...\nwant ... pounds,\' and he held up five fingers. They evidently saw by\nthe cut of our jib that we weren\'t Germans.\n\n\'I\'ll be hanged if he gets a penny,\' I said angrily, and the\nconversation languished.\n\nThe situation was getting serious, so I spoke a word to Peter. The\nsoldiers had their rifles loose in their hands, and before they could\nlift them we had the pair covered with our pistols.\n\n\'If you move,\' I said, \'you are dead.\' They understood that all right\nand stood stock still, while the shepherd stopped his raving and took\nto muttering like a gramophone when the record is finished.\n\n\'Drop your guns,\' I said sharply. \'Quick, or we shoot.\'\n\nThe tone, if not the words, conveyed my meaning. Still staring at us,\nthey let the rifles slide to the ground. The next second we had forced\nour horses on the top of them, and the three were off like rabbits. I\nsent a shot over their heads to encourage them. Peter dismounted and\ntossed the guns into a bit of scrub where they would take some finding.\n\nThis hold-up had wasted time. By now it was getting very dark, and we\nhadn\'t ridden a mile before it was black night. It was an annoying\npredicament, for I had completely lost my bearings and at the best I\nhad only a foggy notion of the lie of the land. The best plan seemed\nto be to try and get to the top of a rise in the hope of seeing the\nlights of the city, but all the countryside was so pockety that it was\nhard to strike the right kind of rise.\n\nWe had to trust to Peter\'s instinct. I asked him where our line lay,\nand he sat very still for a minute sniffing the air. Then he pointed\nthe direction. It wasn\'t what I would have taken myself, but on a\npoint like that he was pretty near infallible.\n\nPresently we came to a long slope which cheered me. But at the top\nthere was no light visible anywhere--only a black void like the inside\nof a shell. As I stared into the gloom it seemed to me that there were\npatches of deeper darkness that might be woods.\n\n\'There is a house half-left in front of us,\' said Peter.\n\nI peered till my eyes ached and saw nothing.\n\n\'Well, for heaven\'s sake, guide me to it,\' I said, and with Peter in\nfront we set off down the hill.\n\nIt was a wild journey, for darkness clung as close to us as a vest.\nTwice we stepped into patches of bog, and once my horse saved himself\nby a hair from going head forward into a gravel pit. We got tangled up\nin strands of wire, and often found ourselves rubbing our noses against\ntree trunks. Several times I had to get down and make a gap in\nbarricades of loose stones. But after a ridiculous amount of slipping\nand stumbling we finally struck what seemed the level of a road, and a\npiece of special darkness in front which turned out to be a high wall.\n\nI argued that all mortal walls had doors, so we set to groping along\nit, and presently found a gap. There was an old iron gate on broken\nhinges, which we easily pushed open, and found ourselves on a back path\nto some house. It was clearly disused, for masses of rotting leaves\ncovered it, and by the feel of it underfoot it was grass-grown.\n\nWe dismounted now, leading our horses, and after about fifty yards the\npath ceased and came out on a well-made carriage drive. So, at least,\nwe guessed, for the place was as black as pitch. Evidently the house\ncouldn\'t be far off, but in which direction I hadn\'t a notion.\n\nNow, I didn\'t want to be paying calls on any Turk at that time of day.\nOur job was to find where the road opened into the lane, for after that\nour way to Constantinople was clear. One side the lane lay, and the\nother the house, and it didn\'t seem wise to take the risk of tramping\nup with horses to the front door. So I told Peter to wait for me at\nthe end of the back-road, while I would prospect a bit. I turned to\nthe right, my intention being if I saw the light of a house to return,\nand with Peter take the other direction.\n\nI walked like a blind man in that nether-pit of darkness. The road\nseemed well kept, and the soft wet gravel muffled the sounds of my\nfeet. Great trees overhung it, and several times I wandered into\ndripping bushes. And then I stopped short in my tracks, for I heard\nthe sound of whistling.\n\nIt was quite close, about ten yards away. And the strange thing was\nthat it was a tune I knew, about the last tune you would expect to hear\nin this part of the world. It was the Scots air: \'Ca\' the yowes to the\nknowes,\' which was a favourite of my father\'s.\n\nThe whistler must have felt my presence, for the air suddenly stopped\nin the middle of a bar. An unbounded curiosity seized me to know who\nthe fellow could be. So I started in and finished it myself.\n\nThere was silence for a second, and then the unknown began again and\nstopped. Once more I chipped in and finished it. Then it seemed to me\nthat he was coming nearer. The air in that dank tunnel was very still,\nand I thought I heard a light foot. I think I took a step backward.\nSuddenly there was a flash of an electric torch from a yard off, so\nquick that I could see nothing of the man who held it.\n\nThen a low voice spoke out of the darkness--a voice I knew well--and,\nfollowing it, a hand was laid on my arm. \'What the devil are you doing\nhere, Dick?\' it said, and there was something like consternation in the\ntone.\n\nI told him in a hectic sentence, for I was beginning to feel badly\nrattled myself.\n\n\'You\'ve never been in greater danger in your life,\' said the voice.\n\'Great God, man, what brought you wandering here today of all days?\'\n\nYou can imagine that I was pretty scared, for Sandy was the last man to\nput a case too high. And the next second I felt worse, for he clutched\nmy arm and dragged me in a bound to the side of the road. I could see\nnothing, but I felt that his head was screwed round, and mine followed\nsuit. And there, a dozen yards off, were the acetylene lights of a big\nmotor-car.\n\nIt came along very slowly, purring like a great cat, while we pressed\ninto the bushes. The headlights seemed to spread a fan far to either\nside, showing the full width of the drive and its borders, and about\nhalf the height of the over-arching trees. There was a figure in\nuniform sitting beside the chauffeur, whom I saw dimly in the reflex\nglow, but the body of the car was dark.\n\nIt crept towards us, passed, and my mind was just getting easy again\nwhen it stopped. A switch was snapped within, and the limousine was\nbrightly lit up. Inside I saw a woman\'s figure.\n\nThe servant had got out and opened the door and a voice came from\nwithin--a clear soft voice speaking in some tongue I didn\'t understand.\nSandy had started forward at the sound of it, and I followed him. It\nwould never do for me to be caught skulking in the bushes.\n\nI was so dazzled by the suddenness of the glare that at first I blinked\nand saw nothing. Then my eyes cleared and I found myself looking at\nthe inside of a car upholstered in some soft dove-coloured fabric, and\nbeautifully finished off in ivory and silver. The woman who sat in it\nhad a mantilla of black lace over her head and shoulders, and with one\nslender jewelled hand she kept its fold over the greater part of her\nface. I saw only a pair of pale grey-blue eyes--these and the slim\nfingers.\n\nI remember that Sandy was standing very upright with his hands on his\nhips, by no means like a servant in the presence of his mistress. He\nwas a fine figure of a man at all times, but in those wild clothes,\nwith his head thrown back and his dark brows drawn below his skull-cap,\nhe looked like some savage king out of an older world. He was speaking\nTurkish, and glancing at me now and then as if angry and perplexed. I\ntook the hint that he was not supposed to know any other tongue, and\nthat he was asking who the devil I might be.\n\nThen they both looked at me, Sandy with the slow unwinking stare of the\ngipsy, the lady with those curious, beautiful pale eyes. They ran over\nmy clothes, my brand-new riding-breeches, my splashed boots, my\nwide-brimmed hat. I took off the last and made my best bow.\n\n\'Madam,\' I said, \'I have to ask pardon for trespassing in your garden.\nThe fact is, I and my servant--he\'s down the road with the horses and I\nguess you noticed him--the two of us went for a ride this afternoon,\nand got good and well lost. We came in by your back gate, and I was\nprospecting for your front door to find someone to direct us, when I\nbumped into this brigand-chief who didn\'t understand my talk. I\'m\nAmerican, and I\'m here on a big Government proposition. I hate to\ntrouble you, but if you\'d send a man to show us how to strike the city\nI\'d be very much in your debt.\'\n\nHer eyes never left my face. \'Will you come into the car?\' she said in\nEnglish. \'At the house I will give you a servant to direct you.\'\n\nShe drew in the skirts of her fur cloak to make room for me, and in my\nmuddy boots and sopping clothes I took the seat she pointed out. She\nsaid a word in Turkish to Sandy, switched off the light, and the car\nmoved on.\n\nWomen had never come much my way, and I knew about as much of their\nways as I knew about the Chinese language. All my life I had lived\nwith men only, and rather a rough crowd at that. When I made my pile\nand came home I looked to see a little society, but I had first the\nbusiness of the Black Stone on my hands, and then the war, so my\neducation languished. I had never been in a motor-car with a lady\nbefore, and I felt like a fish on a dry sandbank. The soft cushions\nand the subtle scents filled me with acute uneasiness. I wasn\'t\nthinking now about Sandy\'s grave words, or about Blenkiron\'s warning,\nor about my job and the part this woman must play in it. I was\nthinking only that I felt mortally shy. The darkness made it worse. I\nwas sure that my companion was looking at me all the time and laughing\nat me for a clown.\n\nThe car stopped and a tall servant opened the door. The lady was over\nthe threshold before I was at the step. I followed her heavily, the\nwet squelching from my field-boots. At that moment I noticed that she\nwas very tall.\n\nShe led me through a long corridor to a room where two pillars held\nlamps in the shape of torches. The place was dark but for their glow,\nand it was as warm as a hothouse from invisible stoves. I felt soft\ncarpets underfoot, and on the walls hung some tapestry or rug of an\namazingly intricate geometrical pattern, but with every strand as rich\nas jewels. There, between the pillars, she turned and faced me. Her\nfurs were thrown back, and the black mantilla had slipped down to her\nshoulders.\n\n\'I have heard of you,\' she said. \'You are called Richard Hanau, the\nAmerican. Why have you come to this land?\'\n\n\'To have a share in the campaign,\' I said. \'I\'m an engineer, and I\nthought I could help out with some business like Mesopotamia.\'\n\n\'You are on Germany\'s side?\' she asked.\n\n\'Why, yes,\' I replied. \'We Americans are supposed to be nootrals, and\nthat means we\'re free to choose any side we fancy. I\'m for the Kaiser.\'\n\nHer cool eyes searched me, but not in suspicion. I could see she\nwasn\'t troubling with the question whether I was speaking the truth.\nShe was sizing me up as a man. I cannot describe that calm appraising\nlook. There was no sex in it, nothing even of that implicit sympathy\nwith which one human being explores the existence of another. I was a\nchattel, a thing infinitely removed from intimacy. Even so I have\nmyself looked at a horse which I thought of buying, scanning his\nshoulders and hocks and paces. Even so must the old lords of\nConstantinople have looked at the slaves which the chances of war\nbrought to their markets, assessing their usefulness for some task or\nother with no thought of a humanity common to purchased and purchaser.\nAnd yet--not quite. This woman\'s eyes were weighing me, not for any\nspecial duty, but for my essential qualities. I felt that I was under\nthe scrutiny of one who was a connoisseur in human nature.\n\nI see I have written that I knew nothing about women. But every man\nhas in his bones a consciousness of sex. I was shy and perturbed, but\nhorribly fascinated. This slim woman, poised exquisitely like some\nstatue between the pillared lights, with her fair cloud of hair, her\nlong delicate face, and her pale bright eyes, had the glamour of a wild\ndream. I hated her instinctively, hated her intensely, but I longed to\narouse her interest. To be valued coldly by those eyes was an offence\nto my manhood, and I felt antagonism rising within me. I am a strong\nfellow, well set up, and rather above the average height, and my\nirritation stiffened me from heel to crown. I flung my head back and\ngave her cool glance for cool glance, pride against pride.\n\nOnce, I remember, a doctor on board ship who dabbled in hypnotism told\nme that I was the most unsympathetic person he had ever struck. He\nsaid I was about as good a mesmeric subject as Table Mountain.\nSuddenly I began to realize that this woman was trying to cast some\nspell over me. The eyes grew large and luminous, and I was conscious\nfor just an instant of some will battling to subject mine. I was\naware, too, in the same moment of a strange scent which recalled that\nwild hour in Kuprasso\'s garden-house. It passed quickly, and for a\nsecond her eyes drooped. I seemed to read in them failure, and yet a\nkind of satisfaction, too, as if they had found more in me than they\nexpected.\n\n\'What life have you led?\' the soft voice was saying.\n\nI was able to answer quite naturally, rather to my surprise. \'I have\nbeen a mining engineer up and down the world.\'\n\n\'You have faced danger many times?\'\n\n\'I have faced danger.\'\n\n\'You have fought with men in battles?\'\n\n\'I have fought in battles.\'\n\nHer bosom rose and fell in a kind of sigh. A smile--a very beautiful\nthing--flitted over her face. She gave me her hand. \'The horses are at\nthe door now,\' she said, \'and your servant is with them. One of my\npeople will guide you to the city.\'\n\nShe turned away and passed out of the circle of light into the darkness\nbeyond ...\n\nPeter and I jogged home in the rain with one of Sandy\'s skin-clad\nCompanions loping at our side. We did not speak a word, for my\nthoughts were running like hounds on the track of the past hours. I\nhad seen the mysterious Hilda von Einem, I had spoken to her, I had\nheld her hand. She had insulted me with the subtlest of insults and\nyet I was not angry. Suddenly the game I was playing became invested\nwith a tremendous solemnity. My old antagonists, Stumm and Rasta and\nthe whole German Empire, seemed to shrink into the background, leaving\nonly the slim woman with her inscrutable smile and devouring eyes.\n\'Mad and bad,\' Blenkiron had called her, \'but principally bad.\' I did\nnot think they were the proper terms, for they belonged to the narrow\nworld of our common experience. This was something beyond and above\nit, as a cyclone or an earthquake is outside the decent routine of\nnature. Mad and bad she might be, but she was also great.\n\nBefore we arrived our guide had plucked my knee and spoken some words\nwhich he had obviously got by heart. \'The Master says,\' ran the\nmessage, \'expect him at midnight.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\nAn Embarrassed Toilet\n\nI was soaked to the bone, and while Peter set off to look for dinner I\nwent to my room to change. I had a rubdown and then got into pyjamas\nfor some dumb-bell exercises with two chairs, for that long wet ride\nhad stiffened my arm and shoulder muscles. They were a vulgar suit of\nprimitive blue, which Blenkiron had looted from my London wardrobe. As\nCornelis Brandt I had sported a flannel nightgown.\n\nMy bedroom opened off the sitting-room, and while I was busy with my\ngymnastics I heard the door open. I thought at first it was Blenkiron,\nbut the briskness of the tread was unlike his measured gait. I had\nleft the light burning there, and the visitor, whoever he was, had made\nhimself at home. I slipped on a green dressing-gown Blenkiron had lent\nme, and sallied forth to investigate.\n\nMy friend Rasta was standing by the table, on which he had laid an\nenvelope. He looked round at my entrance and saluted.\n\n\'I come from the Minister of War, sir,\' he said, \'and bring you your\npassports for tomorrow. You will travel by ...\' And then his voice\ntailed away and his black eyes narrowed to slits. He had seen\nsomething which switched him off the metals.\n\nAt that moment I saw it too. There was a mirror on the wall behind\nhim, and as I faced him I could not help seeing my reflection. It was\nthe exact image of the engineer on the Danube boat--blue jeans, _loden_\ncloak, and all. The accursed mischance of my costume had given him the\nclue to an identity which was otherwise buried deep in the Bosporus.\n\nI am bound to say for Rasta that he was a man of quick action. In a\ntrice he had whipped round to the other side of the table between me\nand the door, where he stood regarding me wickedly.\n\nBy this time I was at the table and stretched out a hand for the\nenvelope. My one hope was nonchalance.\n\n\'Sit down, sir,\' I said, \'and have a drink. It\'s a filthy night to\nmove about in.\'\n\n\'Thank you, no, Herr Brandt,\' he said. \'You may burn these passports\nfor they will not be used.\'\n\n\'Whatever\'s the matter with you?\' I cried. \'You\'ve mistaken the house,\nmy lad. I\'m called Hanau--Richard Hanau--and my partner\'s Mr John S.\nBlenkiron. He\'ll be here presently. Never knew anyone of the name of\nBrandt, barring a tobacconist in Denver City.\'\n\n\'You have never been to Rustchuk?\' he said with a sneer.\n\n\'Not that I know of. But, pardon me, Sir, if I ask your name and your\nbusiness here. I\'m darned if I\'m accustomed to be called by Dutch\nnames or have my word doubted. In my country we consider that impolite\nas between gentlemen.\'\n\nI could see that my bluff was having its effect. His stare began to\nwaver, and when he next spoke it was in a more civil tone.\n\n\'I will ask pardon if I\'m mistaken, Sir, but you\'re the image of a man\nwho a week ago was at Rustchuk, a man much wanted by the Imperial\nGovernment.\'\n\n\'A week ago I was tossing in a dirty little hooker coming from\nConstanza. Unless Rustchuk\'s in the middle of the Black Sea I\'ve never\nvisited the township. I guess you\'re barking up the wrong tree. Come\nto think of it, I was expecting passports. Say, do you come from Enver\nDamad?\'\n\n\'I have that honour,\' he said.\n\n\'Well, Enver is a very good friend of mine. He\'s the brightest citizen\nI\'ve struck this side of the Atlantic.\'\n\nThe man was calming down, and in another minute his suspicions would\nhave gone. But at that moment, by the crookedest kind of luck, Peter\nentered with a tray of dishes. He did not notice Rasta, and walked\nstraight to the table and plumped down his burden on it. The Turk had\nstepped aside at his entrance, and I saw by the look in his eyes that\nhis suspicions had become a certainty. For Peter, stripped to shirt\nand breeches, was the identical shabby little companion of the Rustchuk\nmeeting.\n\nI had never doubted Rasta\'s pluck. He jumped for the door and had a\npistol out in a trice pointing at my head.\n\n\'_Bonne fortune_,\' he cried. \'Both the birds at one shot.\' His hand\nwas on the latch, and his mouth was open to cry. I guessed there was\nan orderly waiting on the stairs.\n\nHe had what you call the strategic advantage, for he was at the door\nwhile I was at the other end of the table and Peter at the side of it\nat least two yards from him. The road was clear before him, and\nneither of us was armed. I made a despairing step forward, not knowing\nwhat I meant to do, for I saw no light. But Peter was before me.\n\nHe had never let go of the tray, and now, as a boy skims a stone on a\npond, he skimmed it with its contents at Rasta\'s head. The man was\nopening the door with one hand while he kept me covered with the other,\nand he got the contrivance fairly in the face. A pistol shot cracked\nout, and the bullet went through the tray, but the noise was drowned in\nthe crash of glasses and crockery. The next second Peter had wrenched\nthe pistol from Rasta\'s hand and had gripped his throat.\n\nA dandified Young Turk, brought up in Paris and finished in Berlin, may\nbe as brave as a lion, but he cannot stand in a rough-and-tumble\nagainst a backveld hunter, though more than double his age. There was\nno need for me to help him. Peter had his own way, learned in a wild\nschool, of knocking the sense out of a foe. He gagged him\nscientifically, and trussed him up with his own belt and two straps\nfrom a trunk in my bedroom.\n\n\'This man is too dangerous to let go,\' he said, as if his procedure\nwere the most ordinary thing in the world. \'He will be quiet now till\nwe have time to make a plan.\'\n\nAt that moment there came a knocking at the door. That is the sort of\nthing that happens in melodrama, just when the villain has finished off\nhis job neatly. The correct thing to do is to pale to the teeth, and\nwith a rolling, conscience-stricken eye glare round the horizon. But\nthat was not Peter\'s way.\n\n\'We\'d better tidy up if we\'re to have visitors,\' he said calmly.\n\nNow there was one of those big oak German cupboards against the wall\nwhich must have been brought in in sections, for complete it would\nnever have got through the door. It was empty now, but for Blenkiron\'s\nhatbox. In it he deposited the unconscious Rasta, and turned the key.\n\'There\'s enough ventilation through the top,\' he observed, \'to keep the\nair good.\' Then he opened the door. A magnificent kavass in blue and\nsilver stood outside. He saluted and proffered a card on which was\nwritten in pencil, \'Hilda von Einem\'.\n\nI would have begged for time to change my clothes, but the lady was\nbehind him. I saw the black mantilla and the rich sable furs. Peter\nvanished through my bedroom and I was left to receive my guest in a\nroom littered with broken glass and a senseless man in the cupboard.\n\nThere are some situations so crazily extravagant that they key up the\nspirit to meet them. I was almost laughing when that stately lady\nstepped over my threshold.\n\n\'Madam,\' I said, with a bow that shamed my old dressing-gown and\nstrident pyjamas. \'You find me at a disadvantage. I came home soaking\nfrom my ride, and was in the act of changing. My servant has just\nupset a tray of crockery, and I fear this room\'s no fit place for a\nlady. Allow me three minutes to make myself presentable.\'\n\nShe inclined her head gravely and took a seat by the fire. I went into\nmy bedroom, and as I expected found Peter lurking by the other door.\nIn a hectic sentence I bade him get Rasta\'s orderly out of the place on\nany pretext, and tell him his master would return later. Then I\nhurried into decent garments, and came out to find my visitor in a\nbrown study.\n\nAt the sound of my entrance she started from her dream and stood up on\nthe hearthrug, slipping the long robe of fur from her slim body.\n\n\'We are alone?\' she said. \'We will not be disturbed?\'\n\nThen an inspiration came to me. I remembered that Frau von Einem,\naccording to Blenkiron, did not see eye to eye with the Young Turks;\nand I had a queer instinct that Rasta could not be to her liking. So I\nspoke the truth.\n\n\'I must tell you that there\'s another guest here tonight. I reckon\nhe\'s feeling pretty uncomfortable. At present he\'s trussed up on a\nshelf in that cupboard.\'\n\nShe did not trouble to look round.\n\n\'Is he dead?\' she asked calmly.\n\n\'By no means,\' I said, \'but he\'s fixed so he can\'t speak, and I guess\nhe can\'t hear much.\'\n\n\'He was the man who brought you this?\' she asked, pointing to the\nenvelope on the table which bore the big blue stamp of the Ministry of\nWar.\n\n\'The same,\' I said. \'I\'m not perfectly sure of his name, but I think\nthey call him Rasta.\'\n\nNot a flicker of a smile crossed her face, but I had a feeling that the\nnews pleased her.\n\n\'Did he thwart you?\' she asked.\n\n\'Why, yes. He thwarted me some. His head is a bit swelled, and an\nhour or two on the shelf will do him good.\'\n\n\'He is a powerful man,\' she said, \'a jackal of Enver\'s. You have made\na dangerous enemy.\'\n\n\'I don\'t value him at two cents,\' said I, though I thought grimly that\nas far as I could see the value of him was likely to be about the price\nof my neck.\n\n\'Perhaps you are right,\' she said with serious eyes. \'In these days no\nenemy is dangerous to a bold man. I have come tonight, Mr Hanau, to\ntalk business with you, as they say in your country. I have heard well\nof you, and today I have seen you. I may have need of you, and you\nassuredly will have need of me....\'\n\nShe broke off, and again her strange potent eyes fell on my face. They\nwere like a burning searchlight which showed up every cranny and crack\nof the soul. I felt it was going to be horribly difficult to act a\npart under that compelling gaze. She could not mesmerize me, but she\ncould strip me of my fancy dress and set me naked in the masquerade.\n\n\'What came you forth to seek?\' she asked. \'You are not like the stout\nAmerican Blenkiron, a lover of shoddy power and a devotee of a feeble\nscience. There is something more than that in your face. You are on\nour side, but you are not of the Germans with their hankerings for a\nrococo Empire. You come from America, the land of pious follies, where\nmen worship gold and words. I ask, what came you forth to seek?\'\n\nAs she spoke I seemed to get a vision of a figure, like one of the old\ngods looking down on human nature from a great height, a figure\ndisdainful and passionless, but with its own magnificence. It kindled\nmy imagination, and I answered with the stuff I had often cogitated\nwhen I had tried to explain to myself just how a case could be made out\nagainst the Allied cause.\n\n\'I will tell you, Madam,\' I said. \'I am a man who has followed a\nscience, but I have followed it in wild places, and I have gone through\nit and come out at the other side. The world, as I see it, had become\ntoo easy and cushioned. Men had forgotten their manhood in soft\nspeech, and imagined that the rules of their smug civilization were the\nlaws of the universe. But that is not the teaching of science, and it\nis not the teaching of life. We have forgotten the greater virtues,\nand we were becoming emasculated humbugs whose gods were our own\nweaknesses. Then came war, and the air was cleared. Germany, in spite\nof her blunders and her grossness, stood forth as the scourge of cant.\nShe had the courage to cut through the bonds of humbug and to laugh at\nthe fetishes of the herd. Therefore I am on Germany\'s side. But I\ncame here for another reason. I know nothing of the East, but as I\nread history it is from the desert that the purification comes. When\nmankind is smothered with shams and phrases and painted idols a wind\nblows out of the wild to cleanse and simplify life. The world needs\nspace and fresh air. The civilization we have boasted of is a toy-shop\nand a blind alley, and I hanker for the open country.\'\n\nThis confounded nonsense was well received. Her pale eyes had the cold\nlight of the fanatic. With her bright hair and the long exquisite oval\nof her face she looked like some destroying fury of a Norse legend. At\nthat moment I think I first really feared her; before I had half-hated\nand half-admired. Thank Heaven, in her absorption she did not notice\nthat I had forgotten the speech of Cleveland, Ohio.\n\n\'You are of the Household of Faith,\' she said. \'You will presently\nlearn many things, for the Faith marches to victory. Meantime I have\none word for you. You and your companion travel eastward.\'\n\n\'We go to Mesopotamia,\' I said. \'I reckon these are our passports,\'\nand I pointed to the envelope.\n\nShe picked it up, opened it, and then tore it in pieces and tossed it\nin the fire.\n\n\'The orders are countermanded,\' she said. \'I have need of you and you\ngo with me. Not to the flats of the Tigris, but to the great hills.\nTomorrow you will receive new passports.\'\n\nShe gave me her hand and turned to go. At the threshold she paused,\nand looked towards the oak cupboard. \'Tomorrow I will relieve you of\nyour prisoner. He will be safer in my hands.\'\n\nShe left me in a condition of pretty blank bewilderment. We were to be\ntied to the chariot-wheels of this fury, and started on an enterprise\ncompared to which fighting against our friends at Kut seemed tame and\nreasonable. On the other hand, I had been spotted by Rasta, and had\ngot the envoy of the most powerful man in Constantinople locked in a\ncupboard. At all costs we had to keep Rasta safe, but I was very\ndetermined that he should not be handed over to the lady. I was going\nto be no party to cold-blooded murder, which I judged to be her\nexpedient. It was a pretty kettle of fish, but in the meantime I must\nhave food, for I had eaten nothing for nine hours. So I went in search\nof Peter.\n\nI had scarcely begun my long deferred meal when Sandy entered. He was\nbefore his time, and he looked as solemn as a sick owl. I seized on\nhim as a drowning man clutches a spar.\n\nHe heard my story of Rasta with a lengthening face.\n\n\'That\'s bad,\' he said. \'You say he spotted you, and your subsequent\ndoings of course would not disillusion him. It\'s an infernal nuisance,\nbut there\'s only one way out of it. I must put him in charge of my own\npeople. They will keep him safe and sound till he\'s wanted. Only he\nmustn\'t see me.\' And he went out in a hurry.\n\nI fetched Rasta from his prison. He had come to his senses by this\ntime, and lay regarding me with stony, malevolent eyes.\n\n\'I\'m very sorry, Sir,\' I said, \'for what has happened. But you left me\nno alternative. I\'ve got a big job on hand and I can\'t have it\ninterfered with by you or anyone. You\'re paying the price of a\nsuspicious nature. When you know a little more you\'ll want to\napologize to me. I\'m going to see that you are kept quiet and\ncomfortable for a day or two. You\'ve no cause to worry, for you\'ll\nsuffer no harm. I give you my word of honour as an American citizen.\'\n\nTwo of Sandy\'s miscreants came in and bore him off, and presently Sandy\nhimself returned. When I asked him where he was being taken, Sandy\nsaid he didn\'t know. \'They\'ve got their orders, and they\'ll carry them\nout to the letter. There\'s a big unknown area in Constantinople to\nhide a man, into which the _Khafiyeh_ never enter.\'\n\nThen he flung himself in a chair and lit his old pipe.\n\n\'Dick,\' he said, \'this job is getting very difficult and very dark. But\nmy knowledge has grown in the last few days. I\'ve found out the\nmeaning of the second word that Harry Bullivant scribbled.\'\n\n\'_Cancer_?\' I asked.\n\n\'Yes. It means just what it reads and no more. Greenmantle is\ndying--has been dying for months. This afternoon they brought a German\ndoctor to see him, and the man gave him a few hours of life. By now he\nmay be dead.\'\n\nThe news was a staggerer. For a moment I thought it cleared up things.\n\'Then that busts the show,\' I said. \'You can\'t have a crusade without\na prophet.\'\n\n\'I wish I thought it did. It\'s the end of one stage, but the start of\na new and blacker one. Do you think that woman will be beaten by such\na small thing as the death of her prophet? She\'ll find a\nsubstitute--one of the four Ministers, or someone else. She\'s a devil\nincarnate, but she has the soul of a Napoleon. The big danger is only\nbeginning.\'\n\nThen he told me the story of his recent doings. He had found out the\nhouse of Frau von Einem without much trouble, and had performed with\nhis ragamuffins in the servants\' quarters. The prophet had a large\nretinue, and the fame of his minstrels--for the Companions were known\nfar and wide in the land of Islam--came speedily to the ears of the\nHoly Ones. Sandy, a leader in this most orthodox coterie, was taken\ninto favour and brought to the notice of the four Ministers. He and\nhis half-dozen retainers became inmates of the villa, and Sandy, from\nhis knowledge of Islamic lore and his ostentatious piety, was admitted\nto the confidence of the household. Frau von Einem welcomed him as an\nally, for the Companions had been the most devoted propagandists of the\nnew revelation.\n\nAs he described it, it was a strange business. Greenmantle was dying\nand often in great pain, but he struggled to meet the demands of his\nprotectress. The four Ministers, as Sandy saw them, were unworldly\nascetics; the prophet himself was a saint, though a practical saint\nwith some notions of policy; but the controlling brain and will were\nthose of the lady. Sandy seemed to have won his favour, even his\naffection. He spoke of him with a kind of desperate pity.\n\n\'I never saw such a man. He is the greatest gentleman you can picture,\nwith a dignity like a high mountain. He is a dreamer and a poet,\ntoo--a genius if I can judge these things. I think I can assess him\nrightly, for I know something of the soul of the East, but it would be\ntoo long a story to tell now. The West knows nothing of the true\nOriental. It pictures him as lapped in colour and idleness and luxury\nand gorgeous dreams. But it is all wrong. The _Kaf_ he yearns for is\nan austere thing. It is the austerity of the East that is its beauty\nand its terror ... It always wants the same things at the back of its\nhead. The Turk and the Arab came out of big spaces, and they have the\ndesire of them in their bones. They settle down and stagnate, and by\nthe by they degenerate into that appalling subtlety which is their\nruling passion gone crooked. And then comes a new revelation and a\ngreat simplifying. They want to live face to face with God without a\nscreen of ritual and images and priestcraft. They want to prune life\nof its foolish fringes and get back to the noble bareness of the\ndesert. Remember, it is always the empty desert and the empty sky that\ncast their spell over them--these, and the hot, strong, antiseptic\nsunlight which burns up all rot and decay. It isn\'t inhuman. It\'s the\nhumanity of one part of the human race. It isn\'t ours, it isn\'t as\ngood as ours, but it\'s jolly good all the same. There are times when\nit grips me so hard that I\'m inclined to forswear the gods of my\nfathers!\n\n\'Well, Greenmantle is the prophet of this great simplicity. He speaks\nstraight to the heart of Islam, and it\'s an honourable message. But for\nour sins it\'s been twisted into part of that damned German propaganda.\nHis unworldliness has been used for a cunning political move, and his\ncreed of space and simplicity for the furtherance of the last word in\nhuman degeneracy. My God, Dick, it\'s like seeing St Francis run by\nMessalina.\'\n\n\'The woman has been here tonight,\' I said. \'She asked me what I stood\nfor, and I invented some infernal nonsense which she approved of. But\nI can see one thing. She and her prophet may run for different stakes,\nbut it\'s the same course.\'\n\nSandy started. \'She has been here!\' he cried. \'Tell me, Dick, what do\nyou think of her?\'\n\n\'I thought she was about two parts mad, but the third part was uncommon\nlike inspiration.\'\n\n\'That\'s about right,\' he said. \'I was wrong in comparing her to\nMessalina. She\'s something a dashed sight more complicated. She runs\nthe prophet just because she shares his belief. Only what in him is\nsane and fine, in her is mad and horrible. You see, Germany also wants\nto simplify life.\'\n\n\'I know,\' I said. \'I told her that an hour ago, when I talked more rot\nto the second than any normal man ever achieved. It will come between\nme and my sleep for the rest of my days.\'\n\n\'Germany\'s simplicity is that of the neurotic, not the primitive. It\nis megalomania and egotism and the pride of the man in the Bible that\nwaxed fat and kicked. But the results are the same. She wants to\ndestroy and simplify; but it isn\'t the simplicity of the ascetic, which\nis of the spirit, but the simplicity of the madman that grinds down all\nthe contrivances of civilization to a featureless monotony. The prophet\nwants to save the souls of his people; Germany wants to rule the\ninanimate corpse of the world. But you can get the same language to\ncover both. And so you have the partnership of St Francis and\nMessalina. Dick, did you ever hear of a thing called the Superman?\'\n\n\'There was a time when the papers were full of nothing else,\' I\nanswered. \'I gather it was invented by a sportsman called Nietzsche.\'\n\n\'Maybe,\' said Sandy. \'Old Nietzsche has been blamed for a great deal\nof rubbish he would have died rather than acknowledge. But it\'s a\ncraze of the new, fatted Germany. It\'s a fancy type which could never\nreally exist, any more than the Economic Man of the politicians.\nMankind has a sense of humour which stops short of the final absurdity.\nThere never has been, and there never could be a real Superman ... But\nthere might be a Superwoman.\'\n\n\'You\'ll get into trouble, my lad, if you talk like that,\' I said.\n\n\'It\'s true all the same. Women have got a perilous logic which we\nnever have, and some of the best of them don\'t see the joke of life\nlike the ordinary man. They can be far greater than men, for they can\ngo straight to the heart of things. There never was a man so near the\ndivine as Joan of Arc. But I think, too, they can be more entirely\ndamnable than anything that ever was breeched, for they don\'t stop\nstill now and then and laugh at themselves ... There is no Superman.\nThe poor old donkeys that fancy themselves in the part are either\ncrackbrained professors who couldn\'t rule a Sunday-school class, or\nbristling soldiers with pint-pot heads who imagine that the shooting of\na Duc d\'Enghien made a Napoleon. But there is a Superwoman, and her\nname\'s Hilda von Einem.\'\n\n\'I thought our job was nearly over,\' I groaned, \'and now it looks as if\nit hadn\'t well started. Bullivant said that all we had to do was to\nfind out the truth.\'\n\n\'Bullivant didn\'t know. No man knows except you and me. I tell you,\nthe woman has immense power. The Germans have trusted her with their\ntrump card, and she\'s going to play it for all she is worth. There\'s\nno crime that will stand in her way. She has set the ball rolling, and\nif need be she\'ll cut all her prophets\' throats and run the show\nherself ... I don\'t know about your job, for honestly I can\'t quite\nsee what you and Blenkiron are going to do. But I\'m very clear about\nmy own duty. She\'s let me into the business, and I\'m going to stick to\nit in the hope that I\'ll find a chance of wrecking it ... We\'re moving\neastward tomorrow--with a new prophet if the old one is dead.\'\n\n\'Where are you going?\' I asked.\n\n\'I don\'t know. But I gather it\'s a long journey, judging by the\npreparations. And it must be to a cold country, judging by the clothes\nprovided.\'\n\n\'Well, wherever it is, we\'re going with you. You haven\'t heard the end\nof our yarn. Blenkiron and I have been moving in the best circles as\nskilled American engineers who are going to play Old Harry with the\nBritish on the Tigris. I\'m a pal of Enver\'s now, and he has offered me\nhis protection. The lamented Rasta brought our passports for the\njourney to Mesopotamia tomorrow, but an hour ago your lady tore them up\nand put them in the fire. We are going with her, and she vouchsafed\nthe information that it was towards the great hills.\'\n\nSandy whistled long and low. \'I wonder what the deuce she wants with\nyou? This thing is getting dashed complicated, Dick ... Where, more by\ntoken, is Blenkiron? He\'s the fellow to know about high politics.\'\n\nThe missing Blenkiron, as Sandy spoke, entered the room with his slow,\nquiet step. I could see by his carriage that for once he had no\ndyspepsia, and by his eyes that he was excited.\n\n\'Say, boys,\' he said, \'I\'ve got something pretty considerable in the\nway of noos. There\'s been big fighting on the Eastern border, and the\nBuzzards have taken a bad knock.\'\n\nHis hands were full of papers, from which he selected a map and spread\nit on the table.\n\n\'They keep mum about this thing in the capital, but I\'ve been piecing\nthe story together these last days and I think I\'ve got it straight. A\nfortnight ago old man Nicholas descended from his mountains and\nscuppered his enemies there--at Kuprikeui, where the main road\neastwards crosses the Araxes. That was only the beginning of the\nstunt, for he pressed on on a broad front, and the gentleman called\nKiamil, who commands in those parts, was not up to the job of holding\nhim. The Buzzards were shepherded in from north and east and south,\nand now the Muscovite is sitting down outside the forts of Erzerum. I\ncan tell you they\'re pretty miserable about the situation in the\nhighest quarters ... Enver is sweating blood to get fresh divisions to\nErzerum from Gally-poly, but it\'s a long road and it looks as if they\nwould be too late for the fair ... You and I, Major, start for\nMesopotamy tomorrow, and that\'s about the meanest bit of bad luck that\never happened to John S. We\'re missing the chance of seeing the goriest\nfight of this campaign.\'\n\nI picked up the map and pocketed it. Maps were my business, and I had\nbeen looking for one.\n\n\'We\'re not going to Mesopotamia,\' I said. \'Our orders have been\ncancelled.\'\n\n\'But I\'ve just seen Enver, and he said he had sent round our passports.\'\n\n\'They\'re in the fire,\' I said. \'The right ones will come along\ntomorrow morning.\'\n\nSandy broke in, his eyes bright with excitement.\n\n\'The great hills! ... We\'re going to Erzerum ... Don\'t you see that\nthe Germans are playing their big card? They\'re sending Greenmantle to\nthe point of danger in the hope that his coming will rally the Turkish\ndefence. Things are beginning to move, Dick, old man. No more kicking\nthe heels for us. We\'re going to be in it up to the neck, and Heaven\nhelp the best man ... I must be off now, for I\'ve a lot to do. _Au\nrevoir_. We meet some time in the hills.\'\n\nBlenkiron still looked puzzled, till I told him the story of that\nnight\'s doings. As he listened, all the satisfaction went out of his\nface, and that funny, childish air of bewilderment crept in.\n\n\'It\'s not for me to complain, for it\'s in the straight line of our\ndooty, but I reckon there\'s going to be big trouble ahead of this\ncaravan. It\'s Kismet, and we\'ve got to bow. But I won\'t pretend that\nI\'m not considerable scared at the prospect.\'\n\n\'Oh, so am I,\' I said. \'The woman frightens me into fits. We\'re up\nagainst it this time all right. All the same I\'m glad we\'re to be let\ninto the real star metropolitan performance. I didn\'t relish the idea\nof touring the provinces.\'\n\n\'I guess that\'s correct. But I could wish that the good God would see\nfit to take that lovely lady to Himself. She\'s too much for a quiet\nman at my time of life. When she invites us to go in on the\nground-floor I feel like taking the elevator to the roof-garden.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\nThe Battered Caravanserai\n\nTwo days later, in the evening, we came to Angora, the first stage in\nour journey.\n\nThe passports had arrived next morning, as Frau von Einem had promised,\nand with them a plan of our journey. More, one of the Companions, who\nspoke a little English, was detailed to accompany us--a wise\nprecaution, for no one of us had a word of Turkish. These were the sum\nof our instructions. I heard nothing more of Sandy or Greenmantle or\nthe lady. We were meant to travel in our own party.\n\nWe had the railway to Angora, a very comfortable German _Schlafwagen_,\ntacked to the end of a troop-train. There wasn\'t much to be seen of\nthe country, for after we left the Bosporus we ran into scuds of snow,\nand except that we seemed to be climbing on to a big plateau I had no\nnotion of the landscape. It was a marvel that we made such good time,\nfor that line was congested beyond anything I have ever seen. The\nplace was crawling with the Gallipoli troops, and every siding was\npacked with supply trucks. When we stopped--which we did on an average\nabout once an hour--you could see vast camps on both sides of the line,\nand often we struck regiments on the march along the railway track.\nThey looked a fine, hardy lot of ruffians, but many were deplorably\nragged, and I didn\'t think much of their boots. I wondered how they\nwould do the five hundred miles of road to Erzerum.\n\nBlenkiron played Patience, and Peter and I took a hand at picquet, but\nmostly we smoked and yarned. Getting away from that infernal city had\ncheered us up wonderfully. Now we were out on the open road, moving to\nthe sound of the guns. At the worst, we should not perish like rats in\na sewer. We would be all together, too, and that was a comfort. I\nthink we felt the relief which a man who has been on a lonely outpost\nfeels when he is brought back to his battalion. Besides, the thing had\ngone clean beyond our power to direct. It was no good planning and\nscheming, for none of us had a notion what the next step might be. We\nwere fatalists now, believing in Kismet, and that is a comfortable\nfaith.\n\nAll but Blenkiron. The coming of Hilda von Einem into the business had\nput a very ugly complexion on it for him. It was curious to see how\nshe affected the different members of our gang. Peter did not care a\nrush: man, woman, and hippogriff were the same to him; he met it all as\ncalmly as if he were making plans to round up an old lion in a patch of\nbush, taking the facts as they came and working at them as if they were\na sum in arithmetic. Sandy and I were impressed--it\'s no good denying\nit: horribly impressed--but we were too interested to be scared, and we\nweren\'t a bit fascinated. We hated her too much for that. But she\nfairly struck Blenkiron dumb. He said himself it was just like a\nrattlesnake and a bird.\n\nI made him talk about her, for if he sat and brooded he would get\nworse. It was a strange thing that this man, the most imperturbable\nand, I think, about the most courageous I have ever met, should be\nparalysed by a slim woman. There was no doubt about it. The thought of\nher made the future to him as black as a thunder cloud. It took the\npower out of his joints, and if she was going to be much around, it\nlooked as if Blenkiron might be counted out.\n\nI suggested that he was in love with her, but this he vehemently denied.\n\n\'No, Sir; I haven\'t got no sort of affection for the lady. My trouble\nis that she puts me out of countenance, and I can\'t fit her in as an\nantagonist. I guess we Americans haven\'t got the right poise for\ndealing with that kind of female. We\'ve exalted our womenfolk into\nlittle tin gods, and at the same time left them out of the real\nbusiness of life. Consequently, when we strike one playing the biggest\nkind of man\'s game we can\'t place her. We aren\'t used to regarding\nthem as anything except angels and children. I wish I had had you\nboys\' upbringing.\'\n\nAngora was like my notion of some place such as Amiens in the retreat\nfrom Mons. It was one mass of troops and transport--the neck of the\nbottle, for more arrived every hour, and the only outlet was the single\neastern road. The town was pandemonium into which distracted German\nofficers were trying to introduce some order. They didn\'t worry much\nabout us, for the heart of Anatolia wasn\'t a likely hunting-ground for\nsuspicious characters. We took our passport to the commandant, who\nvisaed them readily, and told us he\'d do his best to get us transport.\nWe spent the night in a sort of hotel, where all four crowded into one\nlittle bedroom, and next morning I had my work cut out getting a\nmotor-car. It took four hours, and the use of every great name in the\nTurkish Empire, to raise a dingy sort of Studebaker, and another two to\nget the petrol and spare tyres. As for a chauffeur, love or money\ncouldn\'t find him, and I was compelled to drive the thing myself.\n\nWe left just after midday and swung out into bare bleak downs patched\nwith scrubby woodlands. There was no snow here, but a wind was blowing\nfrom the east which searched the marrow. Presently we climbed up into\nhills, and the road, though not badly engineered to begin with, grew as\nrough as the channel of a stream. No wonder, for the traffic was like\nwhat one saw on that awful stretch between Cassel and Ypres, and there\nwere no gangs of Belgian roadmakers to mend it up. We found troops by\nthe thousands striding along with their impassive Turkish faces, ox\nconvoys, mule convoys, wagons drawn by sturdy little Anatolian horses,\nand, coming in the contrary direction, many shabby Red Crescent cars\nand wagons of the wounded. We had to crawl for hours on end, till we\ngot past a block. Just before the darkening we seemed to outstrip the\nfirst press, and had a clear run for about ten miles over a low pass in\nthe hills. I began to get anxious about the car, for it was a poor one\nat the best, and the road was guaranteed sooner or later to knock even\na Rolls-Royce into scrap iron.\n\nAll the same it was glorious to be out in the open again. Peter\'s face\nwore a new look, and he sniffed the bitter air like a stag. There\nfloated up from little wayside camps the odour of wood-smoke and\ndung-fires. That, and the curious acrid winter smell of great\nwind-blown spaces, will always come to my memory as I think of that\nday. Every hour brought me peace of mind and resolution. I felt as I\nhad felt when the battalion first marched from Aire towards the\nfiring-line, a kind of keying-up and wild expectation. I\'m not used to\ncities, and lounging about Constantinople had slackened my fibre. Now,\nas the sharp wind buffeted us, I felt braced to any kind of risk. We\nwere on the great road to the east and the border hills, and soon we\nshould stand upon the farthest battle-front of the war. This was no\ncommonplace intelligence job. That was all over, and we were going\ninto the firing-zone, going to take part in what might be the downfall\nof our enemies. I didn\'t reflect that we were among those enemies, and\nwould probably share their downfall if we were not shot earlier. The\ntruth is, I had got out of the way of regarding the thing as a struggle\nbetween armies and nations. I hardly bothered to think where my\nsympathies lay. First and foremost it was a contest between the four\nof us and a crazy woman, and this personal antagonism made the strife\nof armies only a dimly-felt background.\n\nWe slept that night like logs on the floor of a dirty khan, and started\nnext morning in a powder of snow. We were getting very high up now,\nand it was perishing cold. The Companion--his name sounded like\nHussin--had travelled the road before and told me what the places were,\nbut they conveyed nothing to me. All morning we wriggled through a big\nlot of troops, a brigade at least, who swung along at a great pace with\na fine free stride that I don\'t think I have ever seen bettered. I\nmust say I took a fancy to the Turkish fighting man: I remembered the\ntestimonial our fellows gave him as a clean fighter, and I felt very\nbitter that Germany should have lugged him into this dirty business.\nThey halted for a meal, and we stopped, too, and lunched off some brown\nbread and dried figs and a flask of very sour wine. I had a few words\nwith one of the officers who spoke a little German. He told me they\nwere marching straight for Russia, since there had been a great Turkish\nvictory in the Caucasus. \'We have beaten the French and the British,\nand now it is Russia\'s turn,\' he said stolidly, as if repeating a\nlesson. But he added that he was mortally sick of war.\n\nIn the afternoon we cleared the column and had an open road for some\nhours. The land now had a tilt eastward, as if we were moving towards\nthe valley of a great river. Soon we began to meet little parties of\nmen coming from the east with a new look in their faces. The first\nlots of wounded had been the ordinary thing you see on every front, and\nthere had been some pretence at organization. But these new lots were\nvery weary and broken; they were often barefoot, and they seemed to\nhave lost their transport and to be starving. You would find a group\nstretched by the roadside in the last stages of exhaustion. Then would\ncome a party limping along, so tired that they never turned their heads\nto look at us. Almost all were wounded, some badly, and most were\nhorribly thin. I wondered how my Turkish friend behind would explain\nthe sight to his men, if he believed in a great victory. They had not\nthe air of the backwash of a conquering army.\n\nEven Blenkiron, who was no soldier, noticed it.\n\n\'These boys look mighty bad,\' he observed. \'We\'ve got to hustle,\nMajor, if we\'re going to get seats for the last act.\'\n\nThat was my own feeling. The sight made me mad to get on faster, for I\nsaw that big things were happening in the East. I had reckoned that\nfour days would take us from Angora to Erzerum, but here was the second\nnearly over and we were not yet a third of the way. I pressed on\nrecklessly, and that hurry was our undoing.\n\nI have said that the Studebaker was a rotten old car. Its\nsteering-gear was pretty dicky, and the bad surface and continual\nhairpin bends of the road didn\'t improve it. Soon we came into snow\nlying fairly deep, frozen hard and rutted by the big transport-wagons.\nWe bumped and bounced horribly, and were shaken about like peas in a\nbladder. I began to be acutely anxious about the old boneshaker, the\nmore as we seemed a long way short of the village I had proposed to\nspend the night in. Twilight was falling and we were still in an\nunfeatured waste, crossing the shallow glen of a stream. There was a\nbridge at the bottom of a slope--a bridge of logs and earth which had\napparently been freshly strengthened for heavy traffic. As we\napproached it at a good pace the car ceased to answer to the wheel.\n\nI struggled desperately to keep it straight, but it swerved to the left\nand we plunged over a bank into a marshy hollow. There was a sickening\nbump as we struck the lower ground, and the whole party were shot out\ninto the frozen slush. I don\'t yet know how I escaped, for the car\nturned over and by rights I should have had my back broken. But no one\nwas hurt. Peter was laughing, and Blenkiron, after shaking the snow\nout of his hair, joined him. For myself I was feverishly examining the\nmachine. It was about as ugly as it could be, for the front axle was\nbroken.\n\nHere was a piece of hopeless bad luck. We were stuck in the middle of\nAsia Minor with no means of conveyance, for to get a new axle there was\nas likely as to find snowballs on the Congo. It was all but dark and\nthere was no time to lose. I got out the petrol tins and spare tyres\nand cached them among some rocks on the hillside. Then we collected\nour scanty baggage from the derelict Studebaker. Our only hope was\nHussin. He had got to find us some lodging for the night, and next day\nwe would have a try for horses or a lift in some passing wagon. I had\nno hope of another car. Every automobile in Anatolia would now be at a\npremium.\n\nIt was so disgusting a mishap that we all took it quietly. It was too\nbad to be helped by hard swearing. Hussin and Peter set off on\ndifferent sides of the road to prospect for a house, and Blenkiron and\nI sheltered under the nearest rock and smoked savagely.\n\nHussin was the first to strike oil. He came back in twenty minutes\nwith news of some kind of dwelling a couple of miles up the stream. He\nwent off to collect Peter, and, humping our baggage, Blenkiron and I\nplodded up the waterside. Darkness had fallen thick by this time, and\nwe took some bad tosses among the bogs. When Hussin and Peter overtook\nus they found a better road, and presently we saw a light twinkle in\nthe hollow ahead.\n\nIt proved to be a wretched tumble-down farm in a grove of poplars--a\nfoul-smelling, muddy yard, a two-roomed hovel of a house, and a barn\nwhich was tolerably dry and which we selected for our sleeping-place.\nThe owner was a broken old fellow whose sons were all at the war, and\nhe received us with the profound calm of one who expects nothing but\nunpleasantness from life.\n\nBy this time we had recovered our tempers, and I was trying hard to put\nmy new Kismet philosophy into practice. I reckoned that if risks were\nforeordained, so were difficulties, and both must be taken as part of\nthe day\'s work. With the remains of our provisions and some curdled\nmilk we satisfied our hunger and curled ourselves up among the pease\nstraw of the barn. Blenkiron announced with a happy sigh that he had\nnow been for two days quit of his dyspepsia.\n\nThat night, I remember, I had a queer dream. I seemed to be in a wild\nplace among mountains, and I was being hunted, though who was after me\nI couldn\'t tell. I remember sweating with fright, for I seemed to be\nquite alone and the terror that was pursuing me was more than human.\nThe place was horribly quiet and still, and there was deep snow lying\neverywhere, so that each step I took was heavy as lead. A very\nordinary sort of nightmare, you will say. Yes, but there was one\nstrange feature in this one. The night was pitch dark, but ahead of me\nin the throat of the pass there was one patch of light, and it showed a\nrum little hill with a rocky top: what we call in South Africa a\n_castrol_ or saucepan. I had a notion that if I could get to that\n_castrol_ I should be safe, and I panted through the drifts towards it\nwith the avenger of blood at my heels. I woke, gasping, to find the\nwinter morning struggling through the cracked rafters, and to hear\nBlenkiron say cheerily that his duodenum had behaved all night like a\ngentleman. I lay still for a bit trying to fix the dream, but it all\ndissolved into haze except the picture of the little hill, which was\nquite clear in every detail. I told myself it was a reminiscence of\nthe veld, some spot down in the Wakkerstroom country, though for the\nlife of me I couldn\'t place it.\n\nI pass over the next three days, for they were one uninterrupted series\nof heart-breaks. Hussin and Peter scoured the country for horses,\nBlenkiron sat in the barn and played Patience, while I haunted the\nroadside near the bridge in the hope of picking up some kind of\nconveyance. My task was perfectly futile. The columns passed, casting\nwondering eyes on the wrecked car among the frozen rushes, but they\ncould offer no help. My friend the Turkish officer promised to wire to\nAngora from some place or other for a fresh car, but, remembering the\nstate of affairs at Angora, I had no hope from that quarter. Cars\npassed, plenty of them, packed with staff-officers, Turkish and German,\nbut they were in far too big a hurry even to stop and speak. The only\nconclusion I reached from my roadside vigil was that things were\ngetting very warm in the neighbourhood of Erzerum. Everybody on that\nroad seemed to be in mad haste either to get there or to get away.\n\nHussin was the best chance, for, as I have said, the Companions had a\nvery special and peculiar graft throughout the Turkish Empire. But the\nfirst day he came back empty-handed. All the horses had been\ncommandeered for the war, he said; and though he was certain that some\nhad been kept back and hidden away, he could not get on their track.\nThe second day he returned with two--miserable screws and deplorably\nshort in the wind from a diet of beans. There was no decent corn or\nhay left in the countryside. The third day he picked up a nice little\nArab stallion: in poor condition, it is true, but perfectly sound. For\nthese beasts we paid good money, for Blenkiron was well supplied and we\nhad no time to spare for the interminable Oriental bargaining.\n\nHussin said he had cleaned up the countryside, and I believed him. I\ndared not delay another day, even though it meant leaving him behind.\nBut he had no notion of doing anything of the kind. He was a good\nrunner, he said, and could keep up with such horses as ours for ever.\nIf this was the manner of our progress, I reckoned we would be weeks in\ngetting to Erzerum.\n\nWe started at dawn on the morning of the fourth day, after the old\nfarmer had blessed us and sold us some stale rye-bread. Blenkiron\nbestrode the Arab, being the heaviest, and Peter and I had the screws.\nMy worst forebodings were soon realized, and Hussin, loping along at my\nside, had an easy job to keep up with us. We were about as slow as an\nox-wagon. The brutes were unshod, and with the rough roads I saw that\ntheir feet would very soon go to pieces. We jogged along like a\ntinker\'s caravan, about five miles to the hour, as feckless a party as\never disgraced a highroad.\n\nThe weather was now a drizzle, which increased my depression. Cars\npassed us and disappeared in the mist, going at thirty miles an hour to\nmock our slowness. None of us spoke, for the futility of the business\nclogged our spirits. I bit hard on my lip to curb my restlessness, and\nI think I would have sold my soul there and then for anything that\ncould move fast. I don\'t know any sorer trial than to be mad for speed\nand have to crawl at a snail\'s pace. I was getting ripe for any kind\nof desperate venture.\n\nAbout midday we descended on a wide plain full of the marks of rich\ncultivation. Villages became frequent, and the land was studded with\nolive groves and scarred with water furrows. From what I remembered of\nthe map I judged that we were coming to that champagne country near\nSiwas, which is the granary of Turkey, and the home of the true Osmanli\nstock.\n\nThen at the turning of the road we came to the caravanserai.\n\nIt was a dingy, battered place, with the pink plaster falling in\npatches from its walls. There was a courtyard abutting on the road,\nand a flat-topped house with a big hole in its side. It was a long way\nfrom any battle-ground, and I guessed that some explosion had wrought\nthe damage. Behind it, a few hundred yards off, a detachment of\ncavalry were encamped beside a stream, with their horses tied up in\nlong lines of pickets.\n\nAnd by the roadside, quite alone and deserted, stood a large new\nmotor-car.\n\nIn all the road before and behind there was no man to be seen except\nthe troops by the stream. The owners, whoever they were, must be\ninside the caravanserai.\n\nI have said I was in the mood for some desperate deed, and lo and\nbehold providence had given me the chance! I coveted that car as I\nhave never coveted anything on earth. At the moment all my plans had\nnarrowed down to a feverish passion to get to the battle-field. We had\nto find Greenmantle at Erzerum, and once there we should have Hilda von\nEinem\'s protection. It was a time of war, and a front of brass was the\nsurest safety. But, indeed, I could not figure out any plan worth\nspeaking of. I saw only one thing--a fast car which might be ours.\n\nI said a word to the others, and we dismounted and tethered our horses\nat the near end of the courtyard. I heard the low hum of voices from\nthe cavalrymen by the stream, but they were three hundred yards off and\ncould not see us. Peter was sent forward to scout in the courtyard.\nIn the building itself there was but one window looking on the road,\nand that was in the upper floor.\n\nMeantime I crawled along beside the wall to where the car stood, and\nhad a look at it. It was a splendid six-cylinder affair, brand new,\nwith the tyres little worn. There were seven tins of petrol stacked\nbehind as well as spare tyres, and, looking in, I saw map-cases and\nfield-glasses strewn on the seats as if the owners had only got out for\na minute to stretch their legs.\n\nPeter came back and reported that the courtyard was empty.\n\n\'There are men in the upper room,\' he said; \'more than one, for I heard\ntheir voices. They are moving about restlessly, and may soon be coming\nout.\'\n\nI reckoned that there was no time to be lost, so I told the others to\nslip down the road fifty yards beyond the caravanserai and be ready to\nclimb in as I passed. I had to start the infernal thing, and there\nmight be shooting.\n\nI waited by the car till I saw them reach the right distance. I could\nhear voices from the second floor of the house and footsteps moving up\nand down. I was in a fever of anxiety, for any moment a man might come\nto the window. Then I flung myself on the starting handle and worked\nlike a demon.\n\nThe cold made the job difficult, and my heart was in my mouth, for the\nnoise in that quiet place must have woke the dead. Then, by the mercy\nof Heaven, the engine started, and I sprang to the driving seat,\nreleased the clutch, and opened the throttle. The great car shot\nforward, and I seemed to hear behind me shrill voices. A pistol bullet\nbored through my hat, and another buried itself in a cushion beside me.\n\nIn a second I was clear of the place and the rest of the party were\nembarking. Blenkiron got on the step and rolled himself like a sack of\ncoals into the tonneau. Peter nipped up beside me, and Hussin\nscrambled in from the back over the folds of the hood. We had our\nbaggage in our pockets and had nothing to carry.\n\nBullets dropped round us, but did no harm. Then I heard a report at my\near, and out of a corner of my eye saw Peter lower his pistol.\nPresently we were out of range, and, looking back, I saw three men\ngesticulating in the middle of the road.\n\n\'May the devil fly away with this pistol,\' said Peter ruefully. \'I\nnever could make good shooting with a little gun. Had I had my rifle...\'\n\n\'What did you shoot for?\' I asked in amazement. \'We\'ve got the\nfellows\' car, and we don\'t want to do them any harm.\'\n\n\'It would have saved trouble had I had my rifle,\' said Peter, quietly.\n\'The little man you call Rasta was there, and he knew you. I heard him\ncry your name. He is an angry little man, and I observe that on this\nroad there is a telegraph.\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\nTrouble by The Waters of Babylon\n\nFrom that moment I date the beginning of my madness. Suddenly I forgot\nall cares and difficulties of the present and future and became\nfoolishly light-hearted. We were rushing towards the great battle\nwhere men were busy at my proper trade. I realized how much I had\nloathed the lonely days in Germany, and still more the dawdling week in\nConstantinople. Now I was clear of it all, and bound for the clash of\narmies. It didn\'t trouble me that we were on the wrong side of the\nbattle line. I had a sort of instinct that the darker and wilder\nthings grew the better chance for us.\n\n\'Seems to me,\' said Blenkiron, bending over me, \'that this joy-ride is\ngoing to come to an untimely end pretty soon. Peter\'s right. That\nyoung man will set the telegraph going, and we\'ll be held up at the\nnext township.\'\n\n\'He\'s got to get to a telegraph office first,\' I answered. \'That\'s\nwhere we have the pull on him. He\'s welcome to the screws we left\nbehind, and if he finds an operator before the evening I\'m the worst\nkind of a Dutchman. I\'m going to break all the rules and bucket this\ncar for what she\'s worth. Don\'t you see that the nearer we get to\nErzerum the safer we are?\'\n\n\'I don\'t follow,\' he said slowly. \'At Erzerum I reckon they\'ll be\nwaiting for us with the handcuffs. Why in thunder couldn\'t those hairy\nragamuffins keep the little cuss safe? Your record\'s a bit too\nprecipitous, Major, for the most innocent-minded military boss.\'\n\n\'Do you remember what you said about the Germans being open to bluff?\nWell, I\'m going to put up the steepest sort of bluff. Of course\nthey\'ll stop us. Rasta will do his damnedest. But remember that he\nand his friends are not very popular with the Germans, and Madame von\nEinem is. We\'re her proteges, and the bigger the German swell I get\nbefore the safer I\'ll feel. We\'ve got our passports and our orders,\nand he\'ll be a bold man that will stop us once we get into the German\nzone. Therefore I\'m going to hurry as fast as God will let me.\'\n\nIt was a ride that deserved to have an epic written about it. The car\nwas good, and I handled her well, though I say it who shouldn\'t. The\nroad in that big central plain was fair, and often I knocked fifty\nmiles an hour out of her. We passed troops by a circuit over the veld,\nwhere we took some awful risks, and once we skidded by some transport\nwith our off wheels almost over the lip of a ravine. We went through\nthe narrow streets of Siwas like a fire-engine, while I shouted out in\nGerman that we carried despatches for headquarters. We shot out of\ndrizzling rain into brief spells of winter sunshine, and then into a\nsnow blizzard which all but whipped the skin from our faces. And\nalways before us the long road unrolled, with somewhere at the end of\nit two armies clinched in a death-grapple.\n\nThat night we looked for no lodging. We ate a sort of meal in the car\nwith the hood up, and felt our way on in the darkness, for the\nheadlights were in perfect order. Then we turned off the road for four\nhours\' sleep, and I had a go at the map. Before dawn we started again,\nand came over a pass into the vale of a big river. The winter dawn\nshowed its gleaming stretches, ice-bound among the sprinkled meadows.\nI called to Blenkiron:\n\n\'I believe that river is the Euphrates,\' I said.\n\'So,\' he said, acutely interested. \'Then that\'s the waters of Babylon.\nGreat snakes, that I should have lived to see the fields where King\nNebuchadnezzar grazed! Do you know the name of that big hill, Major?\'\n\n\'Ararat, as like as not,\' I cried, and he believed me.\n\nWe were among the hills now, great, rocky, black slopes, and, seen\nthrough side glens, a hinterland of snowy peaks. I remember I kept\nlooking for the _castrol_ I had seen in my dream. The thing had never\nleft off haunting me, and I was pretty clear now that it did not belong\nto my South African memories. I am not a superstitious man, but the\nway that little _kranz_ clung to my mind made me think it was a warning\nsent by Providence. I was pretty certain that when I clapped eyes on\nit I would be in for bad trouble.\n\nAll morning we travelled up that broad vale, and just before noon it\nspread out wider, the road dipped to the water\'s edge, and I saw before\nme the white roofs of a town. The snow was deep now, and lay down to\nthe riverside, but the sky had cleared, and against a space of blue\nheaven some peaks to the south rose glittering like jewels. The arches\nof a bridge, spanning two forks of the stream, showed in front, and as\nI slowed down at the bend a sentry\'s challenge rang out from a\nblock-house. We had reached the fortress of Erzingjan, the\nheadquarters of a Turkish corps and the gate of Armenia.\n\nI showed the man our passports, but he did not salute and let us move\non. He called another fellow from the guardhouse, who motioned us to\nkeep pace with him as he stumped down a side lane. At the other end was\na big barracks with sentries outside. The man spoke to us in Turkish,\nwhich Hussin interpreted. There was somebody in that barracks who\nwanted badly to see us.\n\n\'By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept,\' quoted Blenkiron\nsoftly. \'I fear, Major, we\'ll soon be remembering Zion.\'\n\nI tried to persuade myself that this was merely the red tape of a\nfrontier fortress, but I had an instinct that difficulties were in\nstore for us. If Rasta had started wiring I was prepared to put up the\nbrazenest bluff, for we were still eighty miles from Erzerum, and at\nall costs we were going to be landed there before night.\n\nA fussy staff-officer met us at the door. At the sight of us he cried\nto a friend to come and look.\n\n\'Here are the birds safe. A fat man and two lean ones and a savage who\nlooks like a Kurd. Call the guard and march them off. There\'s no doubt\nabout their identity.\'\n\n\'Pardon me, Sir,\' I said, \'but we have no time to spare and we\'d like\nto be in Erzerum before the dark. I would beg you to get through any\nformalities as soon as possible. This man,\' and I pointed to the\nsentry, \'has our passports.\'\n\n\'Compose yourself,\' he said impudently; \'you\'re not going on just yet,\nand when you do it won\'t be in a stolen car.\' He took the passports\nand fingered them casually. Then something he saw there made him cock\nhis eyebrows.\n\n\'Where did you steal these?\' he asked, but with less assurance in his\ntone.\n\nI spoke very gently. \'You seem to be the victim of a mistake, sir.\nThese are our papers. We are under orders to report ourselves at\nErzerum without an hour\'s delay. Whoever hinders us will have to\nanswer to General von Liman. We will be obliged if you will conduct us\nat once to the Governor.\'\n\n\'You can\'t see General Posselt,\' he said; \'this is my business. I have\na wire from Siwas that four men stole a car belonging to one of Enver\nDamad\'s staff. It describes you all, and says that two of you are\nnotorious spies wanted by the Imperial Government. What have you to\nsay to that?\'\n\n\'Only that it is rubbish. My good Sir, you have seen our passes. Our\nerrand is not to be cried on the housetops, but five minutes with\nGeneral Posselt will make things clear. You will be exceedingly sorry\nfor it if you delay another minute.\'\n\nHe was impressed in spite of himself, and after pulling his moustache\nturned on his heel and left us. Presently he came back and said very\ngruffly that the Governor would see us. We followed him along a\ncorridor into a big room looking out on the river, where an oldish\nfellow sat in an arm-chair by a stove, writing letters with a fountain\npen.\n\nThis was Posselt, who had been Governor of Erzerum till he fell sick\nand Ahmed Fevzi took his place. He had a peevish mouth and big blue\npouches below his eyes. He was supposed to be a good engineer and to\nhave made Erzerum impregnable, but the look on his face gave me the\nimpression that his reputation at the moment was a bit unstable.\n\nThe staff-officer spoke to him in an undertone.\n\n\'Yes, yes, I know,\' he said testily. \'Are these the men? They look a\npretty lot of scoundrels. What\'s that you say? They deny it. But\nthey\'ve got the car. They can\'t deny that. Here, you,\' and he fixed\non Blenkiron, \'who the devil are you?\'\n\nBlenkiron smiled sleepily at him, not understanding one word, and I\ntook up the parable.\n\n\'Our passports, Sir, give our credentials,\' I said. He glanced through\nthem, and his face lengthened.\n\n\'They\'re right enough. But what about this story of stealing a car?\'\n\n\'It is quite true,\' I said, \'but I would prefer to use a pleasanter\nword. You will see from our papers that every authority on the road is\ndirected to give us the best transport. Our own car broke down, and\nafter a long delay we got some wretched horses. It is vitally\nimportant that we should be in Erzerum without delay, so I took the\nliberty of appropriating an empty car we found outside an inn. I am\nsorry for the discomfort of the owners, but our business was too grave\nto wait.\'\n\n\'But the telegram says you are notorious spies!\'\n\nI smiled. \'Who sent the telegram?\'\n\n\'I see no reason why I shouldn\'t give you his name. It was Rasta Bey.\nYou\'ve picked an awkward fellow to make an enemy of.\'\n\nI did not smile but laughed. \'Rasta!\' I cried. \'He\'s one of Enver\'s\nsatellites. That explains many things. I should like a word with you\nalone, Sir.\'\n\nHe nodded to the staff-officer, and when he had gone I put on my most\nBible face and looked as important as a provincial mayor at a royal\nvisit.\n\n\'I can speak freely,\' I said, \'for I am speaking to a soldier of\nGermany. There is no love lost between Enver and those I serve. I\nneed not tell you that. This Rasta thought he had found a chance of\ndelaying us, so he invents this trash about spies. Those Comitadjis\nhave spies on the brain ... Especially he hates Frau von Einem.\'\n\nHe jumped at the name.\n\n\'You have orders from her?\' he asked, in a respectful tone.\n\n\'Why, yes,\' I answered, \'and those orders will not wait.\'\n\nHe got up and walked to a table, whence he turned a puzzled face on me.\n\'I\'m torn in two between the Turks and my own countrymen. If I please\none I offend the other, and the result is a damnable confusion. You\ncan go on to Erzerum, but I shall send a man with you to see that you\nreport to headquarters there. I\'m sorry, gentlemen, but I\'m obliged to\ntake no chances in this business. Rasta\'s got a grievance against you,\nbut you can easily hide behind the lady\'s skirts. She passed through\nthis town two days ago.\'\n\nTen minutes later we were coasting through the slush of the narrow\nstreets with a stolid German lieutenant sitting beside me.\n\nThe afternoon was one of those rare days when in the pauses of snow you\nhave a spell of weather as mild as May. I remembered several like it\nduring our winter\'s training in Hampshire. The road was a fine one,\nwell engineered, and well kept too, considering the amount of traffic.\nWe were little delayed, for it was sufficiently broad to let us pass\ntroops and transport without slackening pace. The fellow at my side was\ngood-humoured enough, but his presence naturally put the lid on our\nconversation. I didn\'t want to talk, however. I was trying to piece\ntogether a plan, and making very little of it, for I had nothing to go\nupon. We must find Hilda von Einem and Sandy, and between us we must\nwreck the Greenmantle business. That done, it didn\'t matter so much\nwhat happened to us. As I reasoned it out, the Turks must be in a bad\nway, and, unless they got a fillip from Greenmantle, would crumple up\nbefore the Russians. In the rout I hoped we might get a chance to\nchange our sides. But it was no good looking so far forward; the first\nthing was to get to Sandy.\n\nNow I was still in the mood of reckless bravado which I had got from\nbagging the car. I did not realize how thin our story was, and how\neasily Rasta might have a big graft at headquarters. If I had, I would\nhave shot out the German lieutenant long before we got to Erzerum, and\nfound some way of getting mixed up in the ruck of the population.\nHussin could have helped me to that. I was getting so confident since\nour interview with Posselt that I thought I could bluff the whole\noutfit.\n\nBut my main business that afternoon was pure nonsense. I was trying to\nfind my little hill. At every turn of the road I expected to see the\n_castrol_ before us. You must know that ever since I could stand I\nhave been crazy about high mountains. My father took me to Basutoland\nwhen I was a boy, and I reckon I have scrambled over almost every bit\nof upland south of the Zambesi, from the Hottentots Holland to the\nZoutpansberg, and from the ugly yellow kopjes of Damaraland to the\nnoble cliffs of Mont aux Sources. One of the things I had looked\nforward to in coming home was the chance of climbing the Alps. But now\nI was among peaks that I fancied were bigger than the Alps, and I could\nhardly keep my eyes on the road. I was pretty certain that my\n_castrol_ was among them, for that dream had taken an almighty hold on\nmy mind. Funnily enough, I was ceasing to think it a place of evil\nomen, for one soon forgets the atmosphere of nightmare. But I was\nconvinced that it was a thing I was destined to see, and to see pretty\nsoon.\n\nDarkness fell when we were some miles short of the city, and the last\npart was difficult driving. On both sides of the road transport and\nengineers\' stores were parked, and some of it strayed into the highway.\nI noticed lots of small details--machine-gun detachments, signalling\nparties, squads of stretcher-bearers--which mean the fringe of an army,\nand as soon as the night began the white fingers of searchlights began\nto grope in the skies.\n\nAnd then, above the hum of the roadside, rose the voice of the great\nguns. The shells were bursting four or five miles away, and the guns\nmust have been as many more distant. But in that upland pocket of\nplain in the frosty night they sounded most intimately near. They kept\nup their solemn litany, with a minute\'s interval between each--no\n_rafale_ which rumbles like a drum, but the steady persistence of\nartillery exactly ranged on a target. I judged they must be bombarding\nthe outer forts, and once there came a loud explosion and a red glare\nas if a magazine had suffered.\n\nIt was a sound I had not heard for five months, and it fairly crazed\nme. I remembered how I had first heard it on the ridge before\nLaventie. Then I had been half-afraid, half-solemnized, but every\nnerve had been quickened. Then it had been the new thing in my life\nthat held me breathless with anticipation; now it was the old thing,\nthe thing I had shared with so many good fellows, my proper work, and\nthe only task for a man. At the sound of the guns I felt that I was\nmoving in natural air once more. I felt that I was coming home.\n\nWe were stopped at a long line of ramparts, and a German sergeant\nstared at us till he saw the lieutenant beside me, when he saluted and\nwe passed on. Almost at once we dipped into narrow twisting streets,\nchoked with soldiers, where it was hard business to steer. There were\nfew lights--only now and then the flare of a torch which showed the\ngrey stone houses, with every window latticed and shuttered. I had put\nout my headlights and had only side lamps, so we had to pick our way\ngingerly through the labyrinth. I hoped we would strike Sandy\'s\nquarters soon, for we were all pretty empty, and a frost had set in\nwhich made our thick coats seem as thin as paper.\n\nThe lieutenant did the guiding. We had to present our passports, and I\nanticipated no more difficulty than in landing from the boat at\nBoulogne. But I wanted to get it over, for my hunger pinched me and it\nwas fearsome cold. Still the guns went on, like hounds baying before a\nquarry. The city was out of range, but there were strange lights on\nthe ridge to the east.\n\nAt last we reached our goal and marched through a fine old carved\narchway into a courtyard, and thence into a draughty hall.\n\n\'You must see the _Sektionschef_,\' said our guide. I looked round to\nsee if we were all there, and noticed that Hussin had disappeared. It\ndid not matter, for he was not on the passports.\n\nWe followed as we were directed through an open door. There was a man\nstanding with his back towards us looking at a wall map, a very big man\nwith a neck that bulged over his collar. I would have known that neck\namong a million. At the sight of it I made a half-turn to bolt back.\nIt was too late, for the door had closed behind us and there were two\narmed sentries beside it.\n\nThe man slewed round and looked into my eyes. I had a despairing hope\nthat I might bluff it out, for I was in different clothes and had\nshaved my beard. But you cannot spend ten minutes in a death-grapple\nwithout your adversary getting to know you.\n\nHe went very pale, then recollected himself and twisted his features\ninto the old grin.\n\n\'So,\' he said, \'the little Dutchmen! We meet after many days.\'\n\nIt was no good lying or saying anything. I shut my teeth and waited.\n\n\'And you, Herr Blenkiron? I never liked the look of you. You babbled\ntoo much, like all your damned Americans.\'\n\n\'I guess your personal dislikes haven\'t got anything to do with the\nmatter,\' said Blenkiron, calmly. \'If you\'re the boss here, I\'ll thank\nyou to cast your eye over these passports, for we can\'t stand waiting\nfor ever.\'\n\nThis fairly angered him. \'I\'ll teach you manners,\' he cried, and took\na step forward to reach for Blenkiron\'s shoulder--the game he had twice\nplayed with me.\n\nBlenkiron never took his hands from his coat pockets. \'Keep your\ndistance,\' he drawled in a new voice. \'I\'ve got you covered, and I\'ll\nmake a hole in your bullet head if you lay a hand on me.\'\n\nWith an effort Stumm recovered himself. He rang a bell and fell to\nsmiling. An orderly appeared to whom he spoke in Turkish, and\npresently a file of soldiers entered the room.\n\n\'I\'m going to have you disarmed, gentlemen,\' he said. \'We can conduct\nour conversation more pleasantly without pistols.\'\n\nIt was idle to resist. We surrendered our arms, Peter almost in tears\nwith vexation. Stumm swung his legs over a chair, rested his chin on\nthe back and looked at me.\n\n\'Your game is up, you know,\' he said. \'These fools of Turkish police\nsaid the Dutchmen were dead, but I had the happier inspiration. I\nbelieved the good God had spared them for me. When I got Rasta\'s\ntelegram I was certain, for your doings reminded me of a little trick\nyou once played me on the Schwandorf road. But I didn\'t think to find\nthis plump old partridge,\' and he smiled at Blenkiron. \'Two eminent\nAmerican engineers and their servant bound for Mesopotamia on business\nof high Government importance! It was a good lie; but if I had been in\nConstantinople it would have had a short life. Rasta and his friends\nare no concern of mine. You can trick them as you please. But you have\nattempted to win the confidence of a certain lady, and her interests\nare mine. Likewise you have offended me, and I do not forgive. By\nGod,\' he cried, his voice growing shrill with passion, \'by the time I\nhave done with you your mothers in their graves will weep that they\never bore you!\'\n\nIt was Blenkiron who spoke. His voice was as level as the chairman\'s\nof a bogus company, and it fell on that turbid atmosphere like acid on\ngrease.\n\n\'I don\'t take no stock in high-falutin\'. If you\'re trying to scare me\nby that dime-novel talk I guess you\'ve hit the wrong man. You\'re like\nthe sweep that stuck in the chimney, a bit too big for your job. I\nreckon you\'ve a talent for romance that\'s just wasted in soldiering.\nBut if you\'re going to play any ugly games on me I\'d like you to know\nthat I\'m an American citizen, and pretty well considered in my own\ncountry and in yours, and you\'ll sweat blood for it later. That\'s a\nfair warning, Colonel Stumm.\'\n\nI don\'t know what Stumm\'s plans were, but that speech of Blenkiron\'s\nput into his mind just the needed amount of uncertainty. You see, he\nhad Peter and me right enough, but he hadn\'t properly connected\nBlenkiron with us, and was afraid either to hit out at all three, or to\nlet Blenkiron go. It was lucky for us that the American had cut such a\ndash in the Fatherland.\n\n\'There is no hurry,\' he said blandly. \'We shall have long happy hours\ntogether. I\'m going to take you all home with me, for I am a\nhospitable soul. You will be safer with me than in the town gaol, for\nit\'s a trifle draughty. It lets things in, and it might let things\nout.\'\n\nAgain he gave an order, and we were marched out, each with a soldier at\nhis elbow. The three of us were bundled into the back seat of the car,\nwhile two men sat before us with their rifles between their knees, one\ngot up behind on the baggage rack, and one sat beside Stumm\'s\nchauffeur. Packed like sardines we moved into the bleak streets, above\nwhich the stars twinkled in ribbons of sky.\n\nHussin had disappeared from the face of the earth, and quite right too.\nHe was a good fellow, but he had no call to mix himself up in our\ntroubles.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\nSparrows on the Housetops\n\n\'I\'ve often regretted,\' said Blenkiron, \'that miracles have left off\nhappening.\'\n\nHe got no answer, for I was feeling the walls for something in the\nnature of a window.\n\n\'For I reckon,\' he went on, \'that it wants a good old-fashioned\ncopper-bottomed miracle to get us out of this fix. It\'s plumb against\nall my principles. I\'ve spent my life using the talents God gave me to\nkeep things from getting to the point of rude violence, and so far I\'ve\nsucceeded. But now you come along, Major, and you hustle a respectable\nmiddle-aged citizen into an aboriginal mix-up. It\'s mighty indelicate.\nI reckon the next move is up to you, for I\'m no good at the\nhousebreaking stunt.\'\n\n\'No more am I,\' I answered; \'but I\'m hanged if I\'ll chuck up the\nsponge. Sandy\'s somewhere outside, and he\'s got a hefty crowd at his\nheels.\'\n\nI simply could not feel the despair which by every law of common sense\nwas due to the case. The guns had intoxicated me. I could still hear\ntheir deep voices, though yards of wood and stone separated us from the\nupper air.\n\nWhat vexed us most was our hunger. Barring a few mouthfuls on the road\nwe had eaten nothing since the morning, and as our diet for the past\ndays had not been generous we had some leeway to make up. Stumm had\nnever looked near us since we were shoved into the car. We had been\nbrought to some kind of house and bundled into a place like a\nwine-cellar. It was pitch dark, and after feeling round the walls,\nfirst on my feet and then on Peter\'s back, I decided that there were no\nwindows. It must have been lit and ventilated by some lattice in the\nceiling. There was not a stick of furniture in the place: nothing but\na damp earth floor and bare stone sides, The door was a relic of the\nIron Age, and I could hear the paces of a sentry outside it.\n\nWhen things get to the pass that nothing you can do can better them,\nthe only thing is to live for the moment. All three of us sought in\nsleep a refuge from our empty stomachs. The floor was the poorest kind\nof bed, but we rolled up our coats for pillows and made the best of it.\nSoon I knew by Peter\'s regular breathing that he was asleep, and I\npresently followed him ...\n\nI was awakened by a pressure below my left ear. I thought it was\nPeter, for it is the old hunter\'s trick of waking a man so that he\nmakes no noise. But another voice spoke. It told me that there was no\ntime to lose and to rise and follow, and the voice was the voice of\nHussin.\n\nPeter was awake, and we stirred Blenkiron out of heavy slumber. We were\nbidden take off our boots and hang them by their laces round our necks\nas country boys do when they want to go barefoot. Then we tiptoed to\nthe door, which was ajar.\n\nOutside was a passage with a flight of steps at one end which led to\nthe open air. On these steps lay a faint shine of starlight, and by\nits help I saw a man huddled up at the foot of them. It was our\nsentry, neatly and scientifically gagged and tied up.\n\nThe steps brought us to a little courtyard about which the walls of the\nhouses rose like cliffs. We halted while Hussin listened intently.\nApparently the coast was clear and our guide led us to one side, which\nwas clothed by a stout wooden trellis. Once it may have supported\nfig-trees, but now the plants were dead and only withered tendrils and\nrotten stumps remained.\n\nIt was child\'s play for Peter and me to go up that trellis, but it was\nthe deuce and all for Blenkiron. He was in poor condition and puffed\nlike a grampus, and he seemed to have no sort of head for heights. But\nhe was as game as a buffalo, and started in gallantly till his arms\ngave out and he fairly stuck. So Peter and I went up on each side of\nhim, taking an arm apiece, as I had once seen done to a man with\nvertigo in the Kloof Chimney on Table Mountain. I was mighty thankful\nwhen I got him panting on the top and Hussin had shinned up beside us.\n\nWe crawled along a broadish wall, with an inch or two of powdery snow\non it, and then up a sloping buttress on to the flat roof of the house.\nIt was a miserable business for Blenkiron, who would certainly have\nfallen if he could have seen what was below him, and Peter and I had to\nstand to attention all the time. Then began a more difficult job.\nHussin pointed out a ledge which took us past a stack of chimneys to\nanother building slightly lower, this being the route he fancied. At\nthat I sat down resolutely and put on my boots, and the others\nfollowed. Frost-bitten feet would be a poor asset in this kind of\ntravelling.\n\nIt was a bad step for Blenkiron, and we only got him past it by Peter\nand I spread-eagling ourselves against the wall and passing him in\nfront of us with his face towards us. We had no grip, and if he had\nstumbled we should all three have been in the courtyard. But we got it\nover, and dropped as softly as possible on to the roof of the next\nhouse. Hussin had his finger on his lips, and I soon saw why. For\nthere was a lighted window in the wall we had descended.\n\nSome imp prompted me to wait behind and explore. The others followed\nHussin and were soon at the far end of the roof, where a kind of wooden\npavilion broke the line, while I tried to get a look inside. The\nwindow was curtained, and had two folding sashes which clasped in the\nmiddle. Through a gap in the curtain I saw a little lamp-lit room and\na big man sitting at a table littered with papers.\n\nI watched him, fascinated, as he turned to consult some document and\nmade a marking on the map before him. Then he suddenly rose, stretched\nhimself, cast a glance at the window, and went out of the room, making\na great clatter in descending the wooden staircase. He left the door\najar and the lamp burning.\n\nI guessed he had gone to have a look at his prisoners, in which case\nthe show was up. But what filled my mind was an insane desire to get a\nsight of his map. It was one of those mad impulses which utterly cloud\nright reason, a thing independent of any plan, a crazy leap in the\ndark. But it was so strong that I would have pulled that window out by\nits frame, if need be, to get to that table.\n\nThere was no need, for the flimsy clasp gave at the first pull, and the\nsashes swung open. I scrambled in, after listening for steps on the\nstairs. I crumpled up the map and stuck it in my pocket, as well as\nthe paper from which I had seen him copying. Very carefully I removed\nall marks of my entry, brushed away the snow from the boards, pulled\nback the curtain, got out and refastened the window. Still there was no\nsound of his return. Then I started off to catch up the others.\n\nI found them shivering in the roof pavilion. \'We\'ve got to move pretty\nfast,\' I said, \'for I\'ve just been burgling old Stumm\'s private\ncabinet. Hussin, my lad, d\'you hear that? They may be after us any\nmoment, so I pray Heaven we soon strike better going.\'\n\nHussin understood. He led us at a smart pace from one roof to another,\nfor here they were all of the same height, and only low parapets and\nscreens divided them. We never saw a soul, for a winter\'s night is not\nthe time you choose to saunter on your housetop. I kept my ears open\nfor trouble behind us, and in about five minutes I heard it. A riot of\nvoices broke out, with one louder than the rest, and, looking back, I\nsaw lanterns waving. Stumm had realized his loss and found the tracks\nof the thief.\n\nHussin gave one glance behind and then hurried us on at break-neck\npace, with old Blenkiron gasping and stumbling. The shouts behind us\ngrew louder, as if some eye quicker than the rest had caught our\nmovement in the starlit darkness. It was very evident that if they\nkept up the chase we should be caught, for Blenkiron was about as\nuseful on a roof as a hippo.\n\nPresently we came to a big drop, with a kind of ladder down it, and at\nthe foot a shallow ledge running to the left into a pit of darkness.\nHussin gripped my arm and pointed down it. \'Follow it,\' he whispered,\n\'and you will reach a roof which spans a street. Cross it, and on the\nother side is a mosque. Turn to the right there and you will find easy\ngoing for fifty metres, well screened from the higher roofs. For\nAllah\'s sake keep in the shelter of the screen. Somewhere there I will\njoin you.\'\n\nHe hurried us along the ledge for a bit and then went back, and with\nsnow from the corners covered up our tracks. After that he went\nstraight on himself, taking strange short steps like a bird. I saw his\ngame. He wanted to lead our pursuers after him, and he had to multiply\nthe tracks and trust to Stumm\'s fellows not spotting that they all were\nmade by one man.\n\nBut I had quite enough to think of in getting Blenkiron along that\nledge. He was pretty nearly foundered, he was in a sweat of terror,\nand as a matter of fact he was taking one of the biggest risks of his\nlife, for we had no rope and his neck depended on himself. I could\nhear him invoking some unknown deity called Holy Mike. But he ventured\ngallantly, and we got to the roof which ran across the street. That\nwas easier, though ticklish enough, but it was no joke skirting the\ncupola of that infernal mosque. At last we found the parapet and\nbreathed more freely, for we were now under shelter from the direction\nof danger. I spared a moment to look round, and thirty yards off,\nacross the street, I saw a weird spectacle.\n\nThe hunt was proceeding along the roofs parallel to the one we were\nlodged on. I saw the flicker of the lanterns, waved up and down as the\nbearers slipped in the snow, and I heard their cries like hounds on a\ntrail. Stumm was not among them: he had not the shape for that sort of\nbusiness. They passed us and continued to our left, now hid by a\njutting chimney, now clear to view against the sky line. The roofs\nthey were on were perhaps six feet higher than ours, so even from our\nshelter we could mark their course. If Hussin were going to be hunted\nacross Erzerum it was a bad look-out for us, for I hadn\'t the foggiest\nnotion where we were or where we were going to.\n\nBut as we watched we saw something more. The wavering lanterns were\nnow three or four hundred yards away, but on the roofs just opposite us\nacross the street there appeared a man\'s figure. I thought it was one\nof the hunters, and we all crouched lower, and then I recognized the\nlean agility of Hussin. He must have doubled back, keeping in the dusk\nto the left of the pursuit, and taking big risks in the open places.\nBut there he was now, exactly in front of us, and separated only by the\nwidth of the narrow street.\n\nHe took a step backward, gathered himself for a spring, and leaped\nclean over the gap. Like a cat he lighted on the parapet above us, and\nstumbled forward with the impetus right on our heads.\n\n\'We are safe for the moment,\' he whispered, \'but when they miss me they\nwill return. We must make good haste.\'\n\nThe next half-hour was a maze of twists and turns, slipping down icy\nroofs and climbing icier chimney-stacks. The stir of the city had\ngone, and from the black streets below came scarcely a sound. But\nalways the great tattoo of guns beat in the east. Gradually we\ndescended to a lower level, till we emerged on the top of a shed in a\ncourtyard. Hussin gave an odd sort of cry, like a demented owl, and\nsomething began to stir below us.\n\nIt was a big covered wagon, full of bundles of forage, and drawn by\nfour mules. As we descended from the shed into the frozen litter of\nthe yard, a man came out of the shade and spoke low to Hussin. Peter\nand I lifted Blenkiron into the cart, and scrambled in beside him, and\nI never felt anything more blessed than the warmth and softness of that\nplace after the frosty roofs. I had forgotten all about my hunger, and\nonly yearned for sleep. Presently the wagon moved out of the courtyard\ninto the dark streets.\n\nThen Blenkiron began to laugh, a deep internal rumble which shook him\nviolently and brought down a heap of forage on his head. I thought it\nwas hysterics, the relief from the tension of the past hour. But it\nwasn\'t. His body might be out of training, but there was never\nanything the matter with his nerves. He was consumed with honest\nmerriment.\n\n\'Say, Major,\' he gasped, \'I don\'t usually cherish dislikes for my\nfellow men, but somehow I didn\'t cotton to Colonel Stumm. But now I\nalmost love him. You hit his jaw very bad in Germany, and now you\'ve\nannexed his private file, and I guess it\'s important or he wouldn\'t\nhave been so mighty set on steeple-chasing over those roofs. I haven\'t\ndone such a thing since I broke into neighbour Brown\'s woodshed to\nsteal his tame \'possum, and that\'s forty years back. It\'s the first\npiece of genooine amusement I\'ve struck in this game, and I haven\'t\nlaughed so much since old Jim Hooker told the tale of \"Cousin Sally\nDillard\" when we were hunting ducks in Michigan and his wife\'s brother\nhad an apoplexy in the night and died of it.\'\n\nTo the accompaniment of Blenkiron\'s chuckles I did what Peter had done\nin the first minute, and fell asleep.\n\nWhen I woke it was still dark. The wagon had stopped in a courtyard\nwhich seemed to be shaded by great trees. The snow lay deeper here,\nand by the feel of the air we had left the city and climbed to higher\nground. There were big buildings on one side, and on the other what\nlooked like the lift of a hill. No lights were shown, the place was in\nprofound gloom, but I felt the presence near me of others besides\nHussin and the driver.\n\nWe were hurried, Blenkiron only half awake, into an outbuilding, and\nthen down some steps to a roomy cellar. There Hussin lit a lantern,\nwhich showed what had once been a storehouse for fruit. Old husks still\nstrewed the floor and the place smelt of apples. Straw had been piled\nin corners for beds, and there was a rude table and a divan of boards\ncovered with sheepskins.\n\n\'Where are we?\' I asked Hussin.\n\n\'In the house of the Master,\' he said. \'You will be safe here, but you\nmust keep still till the Master comes.\'\n\n\'Is the Frankish lady here?\' I asked.\n\nHussin nodded, and from a wallet brought out some food--raisins and\ncold meat and a loaf of bread. We fell on it like vultures, and as we\nate Hussin disappeared. I noticed that he locked the door behind him.\n\nAs soon as the meal was ended the others returned to their interrupted\nsleep. But I was wakeful now and my mind was sharp-set on many things.\nI got Blenkiron\'s electric torch and lay down on the divan to study\nStumm\'s map.\n\nThe first glance showed me that I had lit on a treasure. It was the\nstaff map of the Erzerum defences, showing the forts and the field\ntrenches, with little notes scribbled in Stumm\'s neat small\nhandwriting. I got out the big map which I had taken from Blenkiron,\nand made out the general lie of the land. I saw the horseshoe of Deve\nBoyun to the east which the Russian guns were battering. Stumm\'s was\njust like the kind of squared artillery map we used in France, 1 in\n10,000, with spidery red lines showing the trenches, but with the\ndifference that it was the Turkish trenches that were shown in detail\nand the Russian only roughly indicated. The thing was really a\nconfidential plan of the whole Erzerum _enceinte_, and would be worth\nuntold gold to the enemy. No wonder Stumm had been in a wax at its\nloss.\n\nThe Deve Boyun lines seemed to me monstrously strong, and I remembered\nthe merits of the Turk as a fighter behind strong defences. It looked\nas if Russia were up against a second Plevna or a new Gallipoli.\n\nThen I took to studying the flanks. South lay the Palantuken range of\nmountains, with forts defending the passes, where ran the roads to Mush\nand Lake Van. That side, too, looked pretty strong. North in the\nvalley of the Euphrates I made out two big forts, Tafta and Kara Gubek,\ndefending the road from Olti. On this part of the map Stumm\'s notes\nwere plentiful, and I gave them all my attention. I remembered\nBlenkiron\'s news about the Russians advancing on a broad front, for it\nwas clear that Stumm was taking pains about the flank of the fortress.\n\nKara Gubek was the point of interest. It stood on a rib of land\nbetween two peaks, which from the contour lines rose very steep. So\nlong as it was held it was clear that no invader could move down the\nEuphrates glen. Stumm had appended a note to the peaks--\'_not\nfortified_\'; and about two miles to the north-east there was a red\ncross and the name \'_Prjevalsky_\'. I assumed that to be the farthest\npoint yet reached by the right wing of the Russian attack.\n\nThen I turned to the paper from which Stumm had copied the jottings on\nto his map. It was typewritten, and consisted of notes on different\npoints. One was headed \'_Kara Gubek_\' and read: \'_No time to fortify\nadjacent peaks. Difficult for enemy to get batteries there, but not\nimpossible. This the real point of danger, for if Prjevalsky wins the\npeaks Kara Gubek and Tafta must fall, and enemy will be on left rear of\nDeve Boyun main position_.\'\n\nI was soldier enough to see the tremendous importance of this note. On\nKara Gubek depended the defence of Erzerum, and it was a broken reed if\none knew where the weakness lay. Yet, searching the map again, I could\nnot believe that any mortal commander would see any chance in the\nadjacent peaks, even if he thought them unfortified. That was\ninformation confined to the Turkish and German staff. But if it could\nbe conveyed to the Grand Duke he would have Erzerum in his power in a\nday. Otherwise he would go on battering at the Deve Boyun ridge for\nweeks, and long ere he won it the Gallipoli divisions would arrive, he\nwould be out-numbered by two to one, and his chance would have vanished.\n\nMy discovery set me pacing up and down that cellar in a perfect fever\nof excitement. I longed for wireless, a carrier pigeon, an\naeroplane--anything to bridge over that space of half a dozen miles\nbetween me and the Russian lines. It was maddening to have stumbled on\nvital news and to be wholly unable to use it. How could three\nfugitives in a cellar, with the whole hornet\'s nest of Turkey and\nGermany stirred up against them, hope to send this message of life and\ndeath?\n\nI went back to the map and examined the nearest Russian positions. They\nwere carefully marked. Prjevalsky in the north, the main force beyond\nDeve Boyun, and the southern columns up to the passes of the Palantuken\nbut not yet across them. I could not know which was nearest to us till\nI discovered where we were. And as I thought of this I began to see\nthe rudiments of a desperate plan. It depended on Peter, now\nslumbering like a tired dog on a couch of straw.\n\nHussin had locked the door and I must wait for information till he came\nback. But suddenly I noticed a trap in the roof, which had evidently\nbeen used for raising and lowering the cellar\'s stores. It looked\nill-fitting and might be unbarred, so I pulled the table below it, and\nfound that with a little effort I could raise the flap. I knew I was\ntaking immense risks, but I was so keen on my plan that I disregarded\nthem. After some trouble I got the thing prised open, and catching the\nedges of the hole with my fingers raised my body and got my knees on\nthe edge.\n\nIt was the outbuilding of which our refuge was the cellar, and it was\nhalf filled with light. Not a soul was there, and I hunted about till\nI found what I wanted. This was a ladder leading to a sort of loft,\nwhich in turn gave access to the roof. Here I had to be very careful,\nfor I might be overlooked from the high buildings. But by good luck\nthere was a trellis for grape vines across the place, which gave a kind\nof shelter. Lying flat on my face I stared over a great expanse of\ncountry.\n\nLooking north I saw the city in a haze of morning smoke, and, beyond,\nthe plain of the Euphrates and the opening of the glen where the river\nleft the hills. Up there, among the snowy heights, were Tafta and Kara\nGubek. To the east was the ridge of Deve Boyun, where the mist was\nbreaking before the winter\'s sun. On the roads up to it I saw\ntransport moving, I saw the circle of the inner forts, but for a moment\nthe guns were silent. South rose a great wall of white mountain, which\nI took to be the Palantuken. I could see the roads running to the\npasses, and the smoke of camps and horse-lines right under the cliffs.\n\nI had learned what I needed. We were in the outbuildings of a big\ncountry house two or three miles south of the city. The nearest point\nof the Russian front was somewhere in the foothills of the Palantuken.\n\nAs I descended I heard, thin and faint and beautiful, like the cry of a\nwild bird, the muezzin from the minarets of Erzerum.\n\nWhen I dropped through the trap the others were awake. Hussin was\nsetting food on the table, and viewing my descent with anxious\ndisapproval.\n\n\'It\'s all right,\' I said; \'I won\'t do it again, for I\'ve found out all\nI wanted. Peter, old man, the biggest job of your life is before you!\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\n\nGreenmantle\n\nPeter scarcely looked up from his breakfast.\n\n\'I\'m willing, Dick,\' he said. \'But you mustn\'t ask me to be friends\nwith Stumm. He makes my stomach cold, that one.\'\n\nFor the first time he had stopped calling me \'Cornelis\'. The day of\nmake-believe was over for all of us.\n\n\'Not to be friends with him,\' I said, \'but to bust him and all his\nkind.\'\n\n\'Then I\'m ready,\' said Peter cheerfully. \'What is it?\'\n\nI spread out the maps on the divan. There was no light in the place\nbut Blenkiron\'s electric torch, for Hussin had put out the lantern.\nPeter got his nose into the things at once, for his intelligence work\nin the Boer War had made him handy with maps. It didn\'t want much\ntelling from me to explain to him the importance of the one I had\nlooted.\n\n\'That news is worth many a million pounds,\' said he, wrinkling his\nbrows, and scratching delicately the tip of his left ear. It was a way\nhe had when he was startled.\n\n\'How can we get it to our friends?\'\n\nPeter cogitated. \'There is but one way. A man must take it. Once, I\nremember, when we fought the Matabele it was necessary to find out\nwhether the chief Makapan was living. Some said he had died, others\nthat he\'d gone over the Portuguese border, but I believed he lived. No\nnative could tell us, and since his kraal was well defended no runner\ncould get through. So it was necessary to send a man.\'\n\nPeter lifted up his head and laughed. \'The man found the chief\nMakapan. He was very much alive, and made good shooting with a\nshot-gun. But the man brought the chief Makapan out of his kraal and\nhanded him over to the Mounted Police. You remember Captain Arcoll,\nDick--Jim Arcoll? Well, Jim laughed so much that he broke open a wound\nin his head, and had to have a doctor.\'\n\n\'You were that man, Peter,\' I said.\n\n\'_Ja_. I was the man. There are more ways of getting into kraals than\nthere are ways of keeping people out.\'\n\n\'Will you take this chance?\'\n\n\'For certain, Dick. I am getting stiff with doing nothing, and if I\nsit in houses much longer I shall grow old. A man bet me five pounds\non the ship that I could not get through a trench-line, and if there\nhad been a trench-line handy I would have taken him on. I will be very\nhappy, Dick, but I do not say I will succeed. It is new country to me,\nand I will be hurried, and hurry makes bad stalking.\'\n\nI showed him what I thought the likeliest place--in the spurs of the\nPalantuken mountains. Peter\'s way of doing things was all his own. He\nscraped earth and plaster out of a corner and sat down to make a little\nmodel of the landscape on the table, following the contours of the map.\nHe did it extraordinarily neatly, for, like all great hunters, he was\nas deft as a weaver bird. He puzzled over it for a long time, and\nconned the map till he must have got it by heart. Then he took his\nfield-glasses--a very good single Zeiss which was part of the spoils\nfrom Rasta\'s motor-car--and announced that he was going to follow my\nexample and get on to the house-top. Presently his legs disappeared\nthrough the trap, and Blenkiron and I were left to our reflections.\n\nPeter must have found something uncommon interesting, for he stayed on\nthe roof the better part of the day. It was a dull job for us, since\nthere was no light, and Blenkiron had not even the consolation of a\ngame of Patience. But for all that he was in good spirits, for he had\nhad no dyspepsia since we left Constantinople, and announced that he\nbelieved he was at last getting even with his darned duodenum. As for\nme I was pretty restless, for I could not imagine what was detaining\nSandy. It was clear that our presence must have been kept secret from\nHilda von Einem, for she was a pal of Stumm\'s, and he must by now have\nblown the gaff on Peter and me. How long could this secrecy last, I\nasked myself. We had now no sort of protection in the whole outfit.\nRasta and the Turks wanted our blood: so did Stumm and the Germans; and\nonce the lady found we were deceiving her she would want it most of\nall. Our only hope was Sandy, and he gave no sign of his existence. I\nbegan to fear that with him, too, things had miscarried.\n\nAnd yet I wasn\'t really depressed, only impatient. I could never again\nget back to the beastly stagnation of that Constantinople week. The\nguns kept me cheerful. There was the devil of a bombardment all day,\nand the thought that our Allies were thundering there half a dozen\nmiles off gave me a perfectly groundless hope. If they burst through\nthe defence Hilda von Einem and her prophet and all our enemies would\nbe overwhelmed in the deluge. And that blessed chance depended very\nmuch on old Peter, now brooding like a pigeon on the house-tops.\n\nIt was not till the late afternoon that Hussin appeared again. He took\nno notice of Peter\'s absence, but lit a lantern and set it on the\ntable. Then he went to the door and waited. Presently a light step\nfell on the stairs, and Hussin drew back to let someone enter. He\npromptly departed and I heard the key turn in the lock behind him.\n\nSandy stood there, but a new Sandy who made Blenkiron and me jump to\nour feet. The pelts and skin-cap had gone, and he wore instead a long\nlinen tunic clasped at the waist by a broad girdle. A strange green\nturban adorned his head, and as he pushed it back I saw that his hair\nhad been shaved. He looked like some acolyte--a weary acolyte, for\nthere was no spring in his walk or nerve in his carriage. He dropped\nnumbly on the divan and laid his head in his hands. The lantern showed\nhis haggard eyes with dark lines beneath them.\n\n\'Good God, old man, have you been sick?\' I cried.\n\n\'Not sick,\' he said hoarsely. \'My body is right enough, but the last\nfew days I have been living in hell.\'\n\nBlenkiron nodded sympathetically. That was how he himself would have\ndescribed the company of the lady.\n\nI marched across to him and gripped both his wrists.\n\n\'Look at me,\' I said, \'straight in the eyes.\'\n\nHis eyes were like a sleep-walker\'s, unwinking, unseeing. \'Great\nheavens, man, you\'ve been drugged!\' I said.\n\n\'Drugged,\' he cried, with a weary laugh. \'Yes, I have been drugged,\nbut not by any physic. No one has been doctoring my food. But you\ncan\'t go through hell without getting your eyes red-hot.\'\n\nI kept my grip on his wrists. \'Take your time, old chap, and tell us\nabout it. Blenkiron and I are here, and old Peter\'s on the roof not\nfar off. We\'ll look after you.\'\n\n\'It does me good to hear your voice, Dick,\' he said. \'It reminds me of\nclean, honest things.\'\n\n\'They\'ll come back, never fear. We\'re at the last lap now. One more\nspurt and it\'s over. You\'ve got to tell me what the new snag is. Is\nit that woman?\'\n\nHe shivered like a frightened colt. \'Woman!\' he cried. \'Does a woman\ndrag a man through the nether-pit? She\'s a she-devil. Oh, it isn\'t\nmadness that\'s wrong with her. She\'s as sane as you and as cool as\nBlenkiron. Her life is an infernal game of chess, and she plays with\nsouls for pawns. She is evil--evil--evil.\' And once more he buried\nhis head in his hands.\n\nIt was Blenkiron who brought sense into this hectic atmosphere. His\nslow, beloved drawl was an antiseptic against nerves.\n\n\'Say, boy,\' he said, \'I feel just like you about the lady. But our job\nis not to investigate her character. Her Maker will do that good and\nsure some day. We\'ve got to figure how to circumvent her, and for that\nyou\'ve got to tell us what exactly\'s been occurring since we parted\ncompany.\'\n\nSandy pulled himself together with a great effort.\n\n\'Greenmantle died that night I saw you. We buried him secretly by her\norder in the garden of the villa. Then came the trouble about his\nsuccessor ... The four Ministers would be no party to a swindle. They\nwere honest men, and vowed that their task now was to make a tomb for\ntheir master and pray for the rest of their days at his shrine. They\nwere as immovable as a granite hill and she knew it.... Then they,\ntoo, died.\'\n\n\'Murdered?\' I gasped.\n\n\'Murdered ... all four in one morning. I do not know how, but I\nhelped to bury them. Oh, she had Germans and Kurds to do her foul\nwork, but their hands were clean compared to hers. Pity me, Dick, for\nI have seen honesty and virtue put to the shambles and have abetted the\ndeed when it was done. It will haunt me to my dying day.\'\n\nI did not stop to console him, for my mind was on fire with his news.\n\n\'Then the prophet is gone, and the humbug is over,\' I cried.\n\n\'The prophet still lives. She has found a successor.\'\n\nHe stood up in his linen tunic.\n\n\'Why do I wear these clothes? Because I am Greenmantle. I am the\n_Kaaba-i-hurriyeh_ for all Islam. In three days\' time I will reveal\nmyself to my people and wear on my breast the green ephod of the\nprophet.\'\n\nHe broke off with an hysterical laugh. \'Only you see, I won\'t. I will\ncut my throat first.\'\n\n\'Cheer up!\' said Blenkiron soothingly. \'We\'ll find some prettier way\nthan that.\'\n\n\'There is no way,\' he said; \'no way but death. We\'re done for, all of\nus. Hussin got you out of Stumm\'s clutches, but you\'re in danger every\nmoment. At the best you have three days, and then you, too, will be\ndead.\'\n\nI had no words to reply. This change in the bold and unshakeable Sandy\ntook my breath away.\n\n\'She made me her accomplice,\' he went on. \'I should have killed her on\nthe graves of those innocent men. But instead I did all she asked and\njoined in her game ... She was very candid, you know ... She cares no\nmore than Enver for the faith of Islam. She can laugh at it. But she\nhas her own dreams, and they consume her as a saint is consumed by his\ndevotion. She has told me them, and if the day in the garden was hell,\nthe days since have been the innermost fires of Tophet. I think--it is\nhorrible to say it--that she has got some kind of crazy liking for me.\nWhen we have reclaimed the East I am to be by her side when she rides\non her milk-white horse into Jerusalem ... And there have been\nmoments--only moments, I swear to God--when I have been fired myself by\nher madness ...\'\n\nSandy\'s figure seemed to shrink and his voice grew shrill and wild. It\nwas too much for Blenkiron. He indulged in a torrent of blasphemy such\nas I believe had never before passed his lips.\n\n\'I\'m blessed if I\'ll listen to this God-darned stuff. It isn\'t\ndelicate. You get busy, Major, and pump some sense into your afflicted\nfriend.\'\n\nI was beginning to see what had happened. Sandy was a man of\ngenius--as much as anybody I ever struck--but he had the defects of\nsuch high-strung, fanciful souls. He would take more than mortal\nrisks, and you couldn\'t scare him by any ordinary terror. But let his\nold conscience get cross-eyed, let him find himself in some situation\nwhich in his eyes involved his honour, and he might go stark crazy. The\nwoman, who roused in me and Blenkiron only hatred, could catch his\nimagination and stir in him--for the moment only--an unwilling\nresponse. And then came bitter and morbid repentance, and the last\ndesperation.\n\nIt was no time to mince matters. \'Sandy, you old fool,\' I cried, \'be\nthankful you have friends to keep you from playing the fool. You saved\nmy life at Loos, and I\'m jolly well going to get you through this show.\nI\'m bossing the outfit now, and for all your confounded prophetic\nmanners, you\'ve got to take your orders from me. You aren\'t going to\nreveal yourself to your people, and still less are you going to cut\nyour throat. Greenmantle will avenge the murder of his ministers, and\nmake that bedlamite woman sorry she was born. We\'re going to get clear\naway, and inside of a week we\'ll be having tea with the Grand Duke\nNicholas.\'\n\nI wasn\'t bluffing. Puzzled as I was about ways and means I had still\nthe blind belief that we should win out. And as I spoke two legs\ndangled through the trap and a dusty and blinking Peter descended in\nour midst.\n\nI took the maps from him and spread them on the table.\n\n\'First, you must know that we\'ve had an almighty piece of luck. Last\nnight Hussin took us for a walk over the roofs of Erzerum, and by the\nblessing of Providence I got into Stumm\'s room, and bagged his staff\nmap ... Look there ... d\'you see his notes? That\'s the danger-point\nof the whole defence. Once the Russians get that fort, Kara Gubek,\nthey\'ve turned the main position. And it can be got; Stumm knows it\ncan; for these two adjacent hills are not held ... It looks a mad\nenterprise on paper, but Stumm knows that it is possible enough. The\nquestion is: Will the Russians guess that? I say no, not unless\nsomeone tells them. Therefore, by hook or by crook, we\'ve got to get\nthat information through to them.\'\n\nSandy\'s interest in ordinary things was beginning to flicker up again.\nHe studied the map and began to measure distances.\n\n\'Peter\'s going to have a try for it. He thinks there\'s a sporting\nchance of his getting through the lines. If he does--if he gets this\nmap to the Grand Duke\'s staff--then Stumm\'s goose is cooked. In three\ndays the Cossacks will be in the streets of Erzerum.\'\n\n\'What are the chances?\' Sandy asked.\n\nI glanced at Peter. \'We\'re hard-bitten fellows and can face the truth.\nI think the chances against success are about five to one.\'\n\n\'Two to one,\' said Peter modestly. \'Not worse than that. I don\'t\nthink you\'re fair to me, Dick, my old friend.\'\n\nI looked at that lean, tight figure and the gentle, resolute face, and\nI changed my mind. \'I\'m hanged if I think there are any odds,\' I said.\n\'With anybody else it would want a miracle, but with Peter I believe\nthe chances are level.\'\n\n\'Two to one,\' Peter persisted. \'If it was evens I wouldn\'t be\ninterested.\'\n\n\'Let me go,\' Sandy cried. \'I talk the lingo, and can pass as a Turk,\nand I\'m a million times likelier to get through. For God\'s sake, Dick,\nlet me go.\'\n\n\'Not you. You\'re wanted here. If you disappear the whole show\'s\nbusted too soon, and the three of us left behind will be strung up\nbefore morning ... No, my son. You\'re going to escape, but it will be\nin company with Blenkiron and me. We\'ve got to blow the whole\nGreenmantle business so high that the bits of it will never come to\nearth again ... First, tell me how many of your fellows will stick by\nyou? I mean the Companions.\'\n\n\'The whole half-dozen. They are very worried already about what has\nhappened. She made me sound them in her presence, and they were quite\nready to accept me as Greenmantle\'s successor. But they have their\nsuspicions about what happened at the villa, and they\'ve no love for\nthe woman ... They\'d follow me through hell if I bade them, but they\nwould rather it was my own show.\'\n\n\'That\'s all right,\' I cried. \'It is the one thing I\'ve been doubtful\nabout. Now observe this map. Erzerum isn\'t invested by a long chalk.\nThe Russians are round it in a broad half-moon. That means that all\nthe west, south-west, and north-west is open and undefended by trench\nlines. There are flanks far away to the north and south in the hills\nwhich can be turned, and once we get round a flank there\'s nothing\nbetween us and our friends ... I\'ve figured out our road,\' and I\ntraced it on the map. \'If we can make that big circuit to the west and\nget over that pass unobserved we\'re bound to strike a Russian column\nthe next day. It\'ll be a rough road, but I fancy we\'ve all ridden as\nbad in our time. But one thing we must have, and that\'s horses. Can\nwe and your six ruffians slip off in the darkness on the best beasts in\nthis township? If you can manage that, we\'ll do the trick.\'\n\nSandy sat down and pondered. Thank heaven, he was thinking now of\naction and not of his own conscience.\n\n\'It must be done,\' he said at last, \'but it won\'t be easy. Hussin\'s a\ngreat fellow, but as you know well, Dick, horses right up at the\nbattle-front are not easy to come by. Tomorrow I\'ve got some kind of\ninfernal fast to observe, and the next day that woman will be coaching\nme for my part. We\'ll have to give Hussin time ... I wish to heaven\nit could be tonight.\' He was silent again for a bit, and then he said:\n\'I believe the best time would be the third night, the eve of the\nRevelation. She\'s bound to leave me alone that night.\'\n\n\'Right-o,\' I said. \'It won\'t be much fun sitting waiting in this cold\nsepulchre; but we must keep our heads and risk nothing by being in a\nhurry. Besides, if Peter wins through, the Turk will be a busy man by\nthe day after tomorrow.\'\n\nThe key turned in the door and Hussin stole in like a shade. It was\nthe signal for Sandy to leave.\n\n\'You fellows have given me a new lease of life,\' he said. \'I\'ve got a\nplan now, and I can set my teeth and stick it out.\'\n\nHe went up to Peter and gripped his hand. \'Good luck. You\'re the\nbravest man I\'ve ever met, and I\'ve seen a few.\' Then he turned\nabruptly and went out, followed by an exhortation from Blenkiron to\n\'Get busy about the quadrupeds.\'\n\nThen we set about equipping Peter for his crusade. It was a simple\njob, for we were not rich in properties. His get-up, with his thick\nfur-collared greatcoat, was not unlike the ordinary Turkish officer\nseen in a dim light. But Peter had no intention of passing for a Turk,\nor indeed of giving anybody the chance of seeing him, and he was more\nconcerned to fit in with the landscape. So he stripped off the\ngreatcoat and pulled a grey sweater of mine over his jacket, and put on\nhis head a woollen helmet of the same colour. He had no need of the\nmap for he had long since got his route by heart, and what was once\nfixed in that mind stuck like wax; but I made him take Stumm\'s plan and\npaper, hidden below his shirt. The big difficulty, I saw, would be\ngetting to the Russians without getting shot, assuming he passed the\nTurkish trenches. He could only hope that he would strike someone with\na smattering of English or German. Twice he ascended to the roof and\ncame back cheerful, for there was promise of wild weather.\n\nHussin brought in our supper, and Peter made up a parcel of food.\nBlenkiron and I had both small flasks of brandy and I gave him mine.\n\nThen he held out his hand quite simply, like a good child who is going\noff to bed. It was too much for Blenkiron. With large tears rolling\ndown his face he announced that, if we all came through, he was going\nto fit him into the softest berth that money could buy. I don\'t think\nhe was understood, for old Peter\'s eyes had now the faraway absorption\nof the hunter who has found game. He was thinking only of his job.\n\nTwo legs and a pair of very shabby boots vanished through the trap, and\nsuddenly I felt utterly lonely and desperately sad. The guns were\nbeginning to roar again in the east, and in the intervals came the\nwhistle of the rising storm.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY\n\nPeter Pienaar Goes to the Wars\n\nThis chapter is the tale that Peter told me--long after, sitting beside\na stove in the hotel at Bergen, where we were waiting for our boat.\n\n\nHe climbed on the roof and shinned down the broken bricks of the outer\nwall. The outbuilding we were lodged in abutted on a road, and was\noutside the proper _enceinte_ of the house. At ordinary times I have\nno doubt there were sentries, but Sandy and Hussin had probably managed\nto clear them off this end for a little. Anyhow he saw nobody as he\ncrossed the road and dived into the snowy fields.\n\nHe knew very well that he must do the job in the twelve hours of\ndarkness ahead of him. The immediate front of a battle is a bit too\npublic for anyone to lie hidden in by day, especially when two or three\nfeet of snow make everything kenspeckle. Now hurry in a job of this\nkind was abhorrent to Peter\'s soul, for, like all Boers, his tastes\nwere for slowness and sureness, though he could hustle fast enough when\nhaste was needed. As he pushed through the winter fields he reckoned\nup the things in his favour, and found the only one the dirty weather.\nThere was a high, gusty wind, blowing scuds of snow but never coming to\nany great fall. The frost had gone, and the lying snow was as soft as\nbutter. That was all to the good, he thought, for a clear, hard night\nwould have been the devil.\n\nThe first bit was through farmlands, which were seamed with little\nsnow-filled water-furrows. Now and then would come a house and a patch\nof fruit trees, but there was nobody abroad. The roads were crowded\nenough, but Peter had no use for roads. I can picture him swinging\nalong with his bent back, stopping every now and then to sniff and\nlisten, alert for the foreknowledge of danger. When he chose he could\ncover country like an antelope.\n\nSoon he struck a big road full of transport. It was the road from\nErzerum to the Palantuken pass, and he waited his chance and crossed\nit. After that the ground grew rough with boulders and patches of\nthorn-trees, splendid cover where he could move fast without worrying.\nThen he was pulled up suddenly on the bank of a river. The map had\nwarned him of it, but not that it would be so big.\n\nIt was a torrent swollen with melting snow and rains in the hills, and\nit was running fifty yards wide. Peter thought he could have swum it,\nbut he was very averse to a drenching. \'A wet man makes too much\nnoise,\' he said, and besides, there was the off-chance that the current\nwould be too much for him. So he moved up stream to look for a bridge.\n\nIn ten minutes he found one, a new-made thing of trestles, broad enough\nto take transport wagons. It was guarded, for he heard the tramp of a\nsentry, and as he pulled himself up the bank he observed a couple of\nlong wooden huts, obviously some kind of billets. These were on the\nnear side of the stream, about a dozen yards from the bridge. A door\nstood open and a light showed in it, and from within came the sound of\nvoices.... Peter had a sense of hearing like a wild animal, and he\ncould detect even from the confused gabble that the voices were German.\n\nAs he lay and listened someone came over the bridge. It was an\nofficer, for the sentry saluted. The man disappeared in one of the\nhuts. Peter had struck the billets and repairing shop of a squad of\nGerman sappers.\n\nHe was just going ruefully to retrace his steps and try to find a good\nplace to swim the stream when it struck him that the officer who had\npassed him wore clothes very like his own. He, too, had had a grey\nsweater and a Balaclava helmet, for even a German officer ceases to be\ndressy on a mid-winter\'s night in Anatolia. The idea came to Peter to\nwalk boldly across the bridge and trust to the sentry not seeing the\ndifference.\n\nHe slipped round a corner of the hut and marched down the road. The\nsentry was now at the far end, which was lucky, for if the worst came\nto the worst he could throttle him. Peter, mimicking the stiff German\nwalk, swung past him, his head down as if to protect him from the wind.\n\nThe man saluted. He did more, for he offered conversation. The\nofficer must have been a genial soul.\n\n\'It\'s a rough night, Captain,\' he said in German. \'The wagons are\nlate. Pray God, Michael hasn\'t got a shell in his lot. They\'ve begun\nputting over some big ones.\'\n\nPeter grunted good night in German and strode on. He was just leaving\nthe road when he heard a great halloo behind him.\n\nThe real officer must have appeared on his heels, and the sentry\'s\ndoubts had been stirred. A whistle was blown, and, looking back, Peter\nsaw lanterns waving in the gale. They were coming out to look for the\nduplicate.\n\nHe stood still for a second, and noticed the lights spreading out south\nof the road. He was just about to dive off it on the north side when\nhe was aware of a difficulty. On that side a steep bank fell to a\nditch, and the bank beyond bounded a big flood. He could see the dull\nruffle of the water under the wind.\n\nOn the road itself he would soon be caught; south of it the search was\nbeginning; and the ditch itself was no place to hide, for he saw a\nlantern moving up it. Peter dropped into it all the same and made a\nplan. The side below the road was a little undercut and very steep.\nHe resolved to plaster himself against it, for he would be hidden from\nthe road, and a searcher in the ditch would not be likely to explore\nthe unbroken sides. It was always a maxim of Peter\'s that the best\nhiding-place was the worst, the least obvious to the minds of those who\nwere looking for you.\n\nHe waited until the lights both in the road and the ditch came nearer,\nand then he gripped the edge with his left hand, where some stones gave\nhim purchase, dug the toes of his boots into the wet soil and stuck\nlike a limpet. It needed some strength to keep the position for long,\nbut the muscles of his arms and legs were like whipcord.\n\nThe searcher in the ditch soon got tired, for the place was very wet,\nand joined his comrades on the road. They came along, running,\nflashing the lanterns into the trench, and exploring all the immediate\ncountryside.\n\nThen rose a noise of wheels and horses from the opposite direction.\nMichael and the delayed wagons were approaching. They dashed up at a\ngreat pace, driven wildly, and for one horrid second Peter thought they\nwere going to spill into the ditch at the very spot where he was\nconcealed. The wheels passed so close to the edge that they almost\ngrazed his fingers. Somebody shouted an order and they pulled up a\nyard or two nearer the bridge. The others came up and there was a\nconsultation.\n\nMichael swore he had passed no one on the road.\n\n\'That fool Hannus has seen a ghost,\' said the officer testily. \'It\'s\ntoo cold for this child\'s play.\'\n\nHannus, almost in tears, repeated his tale. \'The man spoke to me in\ngood German,\' he cried.\n\n\'Ghost or no ghost he is safe enough up the road,\' said the officer.\n\'Kind God, that was a big one!\' He stopped and stared at a shell-burst,\nfor the bombardment from the east was growing fiercer.\n\nThey stood discussing the fire for a minute and presently moved off.\nPeter gave them two minutes\' law and then clambered back to the highway\nand set off along it at a run. The noise of the shelling and the wind,\ntogether with the thick darkness, made it safe to hurry.\n\nHe left the road at the first chance and took to the broken country.\nThe ground was now rising towards a spur of the Palantuken, on the far\nslope of which were the Turkish trenches. The night had begun by being\npretty nearly as black as pitch; even the smoke from the shell\nexplosions, which is often visible in darkness, could not be seen. But\nas the wind blew the snow-clouds athwart the sky patches of stars came\nout. Peter had a compass, but he didn\'t need to use it, for he had a\nkind of \'feel\' for landscape, a special sense which is born in savages\nand can only be acquired after long experience by the white man. I\nbelieve he could smell where the north lay. He had settled roughly\nwhich part of the line he would try, merely because of its nearness to\nthe enemy. But he might see reason to vary this, and as he moved he\nbegan to think that the safest place was where the shelling was\nhottest. He didn\'t like the notion, but it sounded sense.\n\nSuddenly he began to puzzle over queer things in the ground, and, as he\nhad never seen big guns before, it took him a moment to fix them.\nPresently one went off at his elbow with a roar like the Last Day.\nThese were Austrian howitzers--nothing over eight-inch, I fancy, but to\nPeter they looked like leviathans. Here, too, he saw for the first\ntime a big and quite recent shell-hole, for the Russian guns were\nsearching out the position. He was so interested in it all that he\npoked his nose where he shouldn\'t have been, and dropped plump into the\npit behind a gun-emplacement.\n\nGunners all the world over are the same--shy people, who hide\nthemselves in holes and hibernate and mortally dislike being detected.\n\nA gruff voice cried \'_Wer da_?\' and a heavy hand seized his neck.\n\nPeter was ready with his story. He belonged to Michael\'s wagon-team\nand had been left behind. He wanted to be told the way to the sappers\'\ncamp. He was very apologetic, not to say obsequious.\n\n\'It is one of those Prussian swine from the Marta bridge,\' said a\ngunner. \'Land him a kick to teach him sense. Bear to your right,\nmannikin, and you will find a road. And have a care when you get there,\nfor the Russkoes are registering on it.\'\n\nPeter thanked them and bore off to the right. After that he kept a\nwary eye on the howitzers, and was thankful when he got out of their\narea on to the slopes up the hill. Here was the type of country that\nwas familiar to him, and he defied any Turk or Boche to spot him among\nthe scrub and boulders. He was getting on very well, when once more,\nclose to his ear, came a sound like the crack of doom.\n\nIt was the field-guns now, and the sound of a field-gun close at hand\nis bad for the nerves if you aren\'t expecting it. Peter thought he had\nbeen hit, and lay flat for a little to consider. Then he found the\nright explanation, and crawled forward very warily.\n\nPresently he saw his first Russian shell. It dropped half a dozen\nyards to his right, making a great hole in the snow and sending up a\nmass of mixed earth, snow, and broken stones. Peter spat out the dirt\nand felt very solemn. You must remember that never in his life had he\nseen big shelling, and was now being landed in the thick of a\nfirst-class show without any preparation. He said he felt cold in his\nstomach, and very wishful to run away, if there had been anywhere to\nrun to. But he kept on to the crest of the ridge, over which a big\nglow was broadening like sunrise. He tripped once over a wire, which\nhe took for some kind of snare, and after that went very warily. By\nand by he got his face between two boulders and looked over into the\ntrue battle-field.\n\nHe told me it was exactly what the predikant used to say that Hell\nwould be like. About fifty yards down the slope lay the Turkish\ntrenches--they were dark against the snow, and now and then a black\nfigure like a devil showed for an instant and disappeared. The Turks\nclearly expected an infantry attack, for they were sending up calcium\nrockets and Very flares. The Russians were battering their line and\nspraying all the hinterland, not with shrapnel, but with good, solid\nhigh-explosives. The place would be as bright as day for a moment, all\nsmothered in a scurry of smoke and snow and debris, and then a black\npall would fall on it, when only the thunder of the guns told of the\nbattle.\n\nPeter felt very sick. He had not believed there could be so much noise\nin the world, and the drums of his ears were splitting. Now, for a man\nto whom courage is habitual, the taste of fear--naked, utter fear--is a\nhorrible thing. It seems to wash away all his manhood. Peter lay on\nthe crest, watching the shells burst, and confident that any moment he\nmight be a shattered remnant. He lay and reasoned with himself,\ncalling himself every name he could think of, but conscious that\nnothing would get rid of that lump of ice below his heart.\n\nThen he could stand it no longer. He got up and ran for his life.\n\nBut he ran forward.\n\nIt was the craziest performance. He went hell-for-leather over a piece\nof ground which was being watered with H.E., but by the mercy of heaven\nnothing hit him. He took some fearsome tosses in shell-holes, but\npartly erect and partly on all fours he did the fifty yards and tumbled\ninto a Turkish trench right on top of a dead man.\n\nThe contact with that body brought him to his senses. That men could\ndie at all seemed a comforting, homely thing after that unnatural\npandemonium. The next moment a crump took the parapet of the trench\nsome yards to his left, and he was half buried in an avalanche.\n\nHe crawled out of that, pretty badly cut about the head. He was quite\ncool now and thinking hard about his next step. There were men all\naround him, sullen dark faces as he saw them when the flares went up.\nThey were manning the parapets and waiting tensely for something else\nthan the shelling. They paid no attention to him, for I fancy in that\ntrench units were pretty well mixed up, and under a bad bombardment no\none bothers about his neighbour. He found himself free to move as he\npleased. The ground of the trench was littered with empty\ncartridge-cases, and there were many dead bodies.\n\nThe last shell, as I have said, had played havoc with the parapet. In\nthe next spell of darkness Peter crawled through the gap and twisted\namong some snowy hillocks. He was no longer afraid of shells, any more\nthan he was afraid of a veld thunderstorm. But he was wondering very\nhard how he should ever get to the Russians. The Turks were behind him\nnow, but there was the biggest danger in front.\n\nThen the artillery ceased. It was so sudden that he thought he had\ngone deaf, and could hardly realize the blessed relief of it. The\nwind, too, seemed to have fallen, or perhaps he was sheltered by the\nlee of the hill. There were a lot of dead here also, and that he\ncouldn\'t understand, for they were new dead. Had the Turks attacked\nand been driven back? When he had gone about thirty yards he stopped\nto take his bearings. On the right were the ruins of a large building\nset on fire by the guns. There was a blur of woods and the debris of\nwalls round it. Away to the left another hill ran out farther to the\neast, and the place he was in seemed to be a kind of cup between the\nspurs. Just before him was a little ruined building, with the sky seen\nthrough its rafters, for the smouldering ruin on the right gave a\ncertain light. He wondered if the Russian firing-line lay there.\n\nJust then he heard voices--smothered voices--not a yard away and\napparently below the ground. He instantly jumped to what this must\nmean. It was a Turkish trench--a communication trench. Peter didn\'t\nknow much about modern warfare, but he had read in the papers, or heard\nfrom me, enough to make him draw the right moral. The fresh dead\npointed to the same conclusion. What he had got through were the\nTurkish support trenches, not their firing-line. That was still before\nhim.\n\nHe didn\'t despair, for the rebound from panic had made him extra\ncourageous. He crawled forward, an inch at a time, taking no sort of\nrisk, and presently found himself looking at the parados of a trench.\nThen he lay quiet to think out the next step.\n\nThe shelling had stopped, and there was that queer kind of peace which\nfalls sometimes on two armies not a quarter of a mile distant. Peter\nsaid he could hear nothing but the far-off sighing of the wind. There\nseemed to be no movement of any kind in the trench before him, which\nran through the ruined building. The light of the burning was dying,\nand he could just make out the mound of earth a yard in front. He\nbegan to feel hungry, and got out his packet of food and had a swig at\nthe brandy flask. That comforted him, and he felt a master of his fate\nagain. But the next step was not so easy. He must find out what lay\nbehind that mound of earth.\n\nSuddenly a curious sound fell on his ears. It was so faint that at\nfirst he doubted the evidence of his senses. Then as the wind fell it\ncame louder. It was exactly like some hollow piece of metal being\nstruck by a stick, musical and oddly resonant.\n\nHe concluded it was the wind blowing a branch of a tree against an old\nboiler in the ruin before him. The trouble was that there was scarcely\nenough wind now for that in this sheltered cup.\n\nBut as he listened he caught the note again. It was a bell, a fallen\nbell, and the place before him must have been a chapel. He remembered\nthat an Armenian monastery had been marked on the big map, and he\nguessed it was the burned building on his right.\n\nThe thought of a chapel and a bell gave him the notion of some human\nagency. And then suddenly the notion was confirmed. The sound was\nregular and concerted--dot, dash, dot--dash, dot, dot. The branch of a\ntree and the wind may play strange pranks, but they do not produce the\nlongs and shorts of the Morse Code.\n\nThis was where Peter\'s intelligence work in the Boer War helped him.\nHe knew the Morse, he could read it, but he could make nothing of the\nsignalling. It was either in some special code or in a strange\nlanguage.\n\nHe lay still and did some calm thinking. There was a man in front of\nhim, a Turkish soldier, who was in the enemy\'s pay. Therefore he could\nfraternize with him, for they were on the same side. But how was he to\napproach him without getting shot in the process? Again, how could a\nman send signals to the enemy from a firing-line without being\ndetected? Peter found an answer in the strange configuration of the\nground. He had not heard a sound until he was a few yards from the\nplace, and they would be inaudible to men in the reserve trenches and\neven in the communication trenches. If somebody moving up the latter\ncaught the noise, it would be easy to explain it naturally. But the\nwind blowing down the cup would carry it far in the enemy\'s direction.\n\nThere remained the risk of being heard by those parallel with the bell\nin the firing trenches. Peter concluded that that trench must be very\nthinly held, probably only by a few observers, and the nearest might be\na dozen yards off. He had read about that being the French fashion\nunder a big bombardment.\n\nThe next thing was to find out how to make himself known to this ally.\nHe decided that the only way was to surprise him. He might get shot,\nbut he trusted to his strength and agility against a man who was almost\ncertainly wearied. When he had got him safe, explanations might follow.\n\nPeter was now enjoying himself hugely. If only those infernal guns\nkept silent he would play out the game in the sober, decorous way he\nloved. So very delicately he began to wriggle forward to where the\nsound was.\n\nThe night was now as black as ink around him, and very quiet, too,\nexcept for soughings of the dying gale. The snow had drifted a little\nin the lee of the ruined walls, and Peter\'s progress was naturally very\nslow. He could not afford to dislodge one ounce of snow. Still the\ntinkling went on, now in greater volume. Peter was in terror lest it\nshould cease before he got his man.\n\nPresently his hand clutched at empty space. He was on the lip of the\nfront trench. The sound was now a yard to his right, and with infinite\ncare he shifted his position. Now the bell was just below him, and he\nfelt the big rafter of the woodwork from which it had fallen. He felt\nsomething else--a stretch of wire fixed in the ground with the far end\nhanging in the void. That would be the spy\'s explanation if anyone\nheard the sound and came seeking the cause.\n\nSomewhere in the darkness before him and below was the man, not a yard\noff. Peter remained very still, studying the situation. He could not\nsee, but he could feel the presence, and he was trying to decide the\nrelative position of the man and bell and their exact distance from\nhim. The thing was not so easy as it looked, for if he jumped for\nwhere he believed the figure was, he might miss it and get a bullet in\nthe stomach. A man who played so risky a game was probably handy with\nhis firearms. Besides, if he should hit the bell, he would make a\nhideous row and alarm the whole front.\n\nFate suddenly gave him the right chance. The unseen figure stood up\nand moved a step, till his back was against the parados. He actually\nbrushed against Peter\'s elbow, who held his breath.\n\nThere is a catch that the Kaffirs have which would need several\ndiagrams to explain. It is partly a neck hold, and partly a paralysing\nbackward twist of the right arm, but if it is practised on a man from\nbehind, it locks him as sure as if he were handcuffed. Peter slowly\ngot his body raised and his knees drawn under him, and reached for his\nprey.\n\nHe got him. A head was pulled backward over the edge of the trench,\nand he felt in the air the motion of the left arm pawing feebly but\nunable to reach behind.\n\n\'Be still,\' whispered Peter in German; \'I mean you no harm. We are\nfriends of the same purpose. Do you speak German?\'\n\n\'_Nein_,\' said a muffled voice.\n\n\'English?\'\n\n\'Yes,\' said the voice.\n\n\'Thank God,\' said Peter. \'Then we can understand each other. I\'ve\nwatched your notion of signalling, and a very good one it is. I\'ve got\nto get through to the Russian lines somehow before morning, and I want\nyou to help me. I\'m English--a kind of English, so we\'re on the same\nside. If I let go your neck, will you be good and talk reasonably?\'\n\nThe voice assented. Peter let go, and in the same instant slipped to\nthe side. The man wheeled round and flung out an arm but gripped\nvacancy.\n\n\'Steady, friend,\' said Peter; \'you mustn\'t play tricks with me or I\'ll\nbe angry.\'\n\n\'Who are you? Who sent you?\' asked the puzzled voice.\n\nPeter had a happy thought. \'The Companions of the Rosy Hours,\' he said.\n\n\'Then are we friends indeed,\' said the voice. \'Come out of the\ndarkness, friend, and I will do you no harm. I am a good Turk, and I\nfought beside the English in Kordofan and learned their tongue. I live\nonly to see the ruin of Enver, who has beggared my family and slain my\ntwin brother. Therefore I serve the _Muscov ghiaours_.\'\n\n\'I don\'t know what the Musky Jaws are, but if you mean the Russians I\'m\nwith you. I\'ve got news for them which will make Enver green. The\nquestion is, how I\'m to get to them, and that is where you shall help\nme, my friend.\'\n\n\'How?\'\n\n\'By playing that little tune of yours again. Tell them to expect\nwithin the next half-hour a deserter with an important message. Tell\nthem, for God\'s sake, not to fire at anybody till they\'ve made certain\nit isn\'t me.\'\n\nThe man took the blunt end of his bayonet and squatted beside the bell.\nThe first stroke brought out a clear, searching note which floated down\nthe valley. He struck three notes at slow intervals. For all the\nworld, Peter said, he was like a telegraph operator calling up a\nstation.\n\n\'Send the message in English,\' said Peter.\n\n\'They may not understand it,\' said the man.\n\n\'Then send it any way you like. I trust you, for we are brothers.\'\n\nAfter ten minutes the man ceased and listened. From far away came the\nsound of a trench-gong, the kind of thing they used on the Western\nFront to give the gas-alarm.\n\n\'They say they will be ready,\' he said. \'I cannot take down messages\nin the darkness, but they have given me the signal which means\n\"Consent\".\'\n\n\'Come, that is pretty good,\' said Peter. \'And now I must be moving.\nYou take a hint from me. When you hear big firing up to the north get\nready to beat a quick retreat, for it will be all up with that city of\nyours. And tell your folk, too, that they\'re making a bad mistake\nletting those fool Germans rule their land. Let them hang Enver and\nhis little friends, and we\'ll be happy once more.\'\n\n\'May Satan receive his soul!\' said the Turk. \'There is wire before us,\nbut I will show you a way through. The guns this evening made many\nrents in it. But haste, for a working party may be here presently to\nrepair it. Remember there is much wire before the other lines.\'\n\nPeter, with certain directions, found it pretty easy to make his way\nthrough the entanglement. There was one bit which scraped a hole in\nhis back, but very soon he had come to the last posts and found himself\nin open country. The place, he said, was a graveyard of the unburied\ndead that smelt horribly as he crawled among them. He had no\ninducements to delay, for he thought he could hear behind him the\nmovement of the Turkish working party, and was in terror that a flare\nmight reveal him and a volley accompany his retreat.\n\nFrom one shell-hole to another he wormed his way, till he struck an old\nruinous communication trench which led in the right direction. The\nTurks must have been forced back in the past week, and the Russians\nwere now in the evacuated trenches. The thing was half full of water,\nbut it gave Peter a feeling of safety, for it enabled him to get his\nhead below the level of the ground. Then it came to an end and he\nfound before him a forest of wire.\n\nThe Turk in his signal had mentioned half an hour, but Peter thought it\nwas nearer two hours before he got through that noxious entanglement.\nShelling had made little difference to it. The uprights were all\nthere, and the barbed strands seemed to touch the ground. Remember, he\nhad no wire-cutter; nothing but his bare hands. Once again fear got\nhold of him. He felt caught in a net, with monstrous vultures waiting\nto pounce on him from above. At any moment a flare might go up and a\ndozen rifles find their mark. He had altogether forgotten about the\nmessage which had been sent, for no message could dissuade the\never-present death he felt around him. It was, he said, like following\nan old lion into bush when there was but one narrow way in, and no road\nout.\n\nThe guns began again--the Turkish guns from behind the ridge--and a\nshell tore up the wire a short way before him. Under cover of the\nburst he made good a few yards, leaving large portions of his clothing\nin the strands. Then, quite suddenly, when hope had almost died in his\nheart, he felt the ground rise steeply. He lay very still, a\nstar-rocket from the Turkish side lit up the place, and there in front\nwas a rampart with the points of bayonets showing beyond it. It was\nthe Russian hour for stand-to.\n\nHe raised his cramped limbs from the ground and shouted \'Friend!\nEnglish!\'\n\nA face looked down at him, and then the darkness again descended.\n\n\'Friend,\' he said hoarsely. \'English.\'\n\nHe heard speech behind the parapet. An electric torch was flashed on\nhim for a second. A voice spoke, a friendly voice, and the sound of it\nseemed to be telling him to come over.\n\nHe was now standing up, and as he got his hands on the parapet he\nseemed to feel bayonets very near him. But the voice that spoke was\nkindly, so with a heave he scrambled over and flopped into the trench.\nOnce more the electric torch was flashed, and revealed to the eyes of\nthe onlookers an indescribably dirty, lean, middle-aged man with a\nbloody head, and scarcely a rag of shirt on his back. The said man,\nseeing friendly faces around him, grinned cheerfully.\n\n\'That was a rough trek, friends,\' he said; \'I want to see your general\npretty quick, for I\'ve got a present for him.\'\n\nHe was taken to an officer in a dug-out, who addressed him in French,\nwhich he did not understand. But the sight of Stumm\'s plan worked\nwonders. After that he was fairly bundled down communication trenches\nand then over swampy fields to a farm among trees. There he found\nstaff officers, who looked at him and looked at his map, and then put\nhim on a horse and hurried him eastwards. At last he came to a big\nruined house, and was taken into a room which seemed to be full of maps\nand generals.\n\nThe conclusion must be told in Peter\'s words.\n\n\'There was a big man sitting at a table drinking coffee, and when I saw\nhim my heart jumped out of my skin. For it was the man I hunted with\non the Pungwe in \'98--him whom the Kaffirs called \"Buck\'s Horn\",\nbecause of his long curled moustaches. He was a prince even then, and\nnow he is a very great general. When I saw him, I ran forward and\ngripped his hand and cried, \"_Hoe gat het, Mynheer_?\" and he knew me\nand shouted in Dutch, \"Damn, if it isn\'t old Peter Pienaar!\" Then he\ngave me coffee and ham and good bread, and he looked at my map.\n\n\'\"What is this?\" he cried, growing red in the face.\n\n\'\"It is the staff-map of one Stumm, a German _skellum_ who commands in\nyon city,\" I said.\n\n\'He looked at it close and read the markings, and then he read the\nother paper which you gave me, Dick. And then he flung up his arms and\nlaughed. He took a loaf and tossed it into the air so that it fell on\nthe head of another general. He spoke to them in their own tongue, and\nthey, too, laughed, and one or two ran out as if on some errand. I\nhave never seen such merrymaking. They were clever men, and knew the\nworth of what you gave me.\n\n\'Then he got to his feet and hugged me, all dirty as I was, and kissed\nme on both cheeks.\n\n\'\"Before God, Peter,\" he said, \"you\'re the mightiest hunter since\nNimrod. You\'ve often found me game, but never game so big as this!\"\'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\nThe Little Hill\n\nIt was a wise man who said that the biggest kind of courage was to be\nable to sit still. I used to feel that when we were getting shelled in\nthe reserve trenches outside Vermelles. I felt it before we went over\nthe parapets at Loos, but I never felt it so much as on the last two\ndays in that cellar. I had simply to set my teeth and take a pull on\nmyself. Peter had gone on a crazy errand which I scarcely believed\ncould come off. There were no signs of Sandy; somewhere within a\nhundred yards he was fighting his own battles, and I was tormented by\nthe thought that he might get jumpy again and wreck everything. A\nstrange Companion brought us food, a man who spoke only Turkish and\ncould tell us nothing; Hussin, I judged, was busy about the horses. If\nI could only have done something to help on matters I could have\nscotched my anxiety, but there was nothing to be done, nothing but wait\nand brood. I tell you I began to sympathize with the general behind\nthe lines in a battle, the fellow who makes the plan which others\nexecute. Leading a charge can be nothing like so nerve-shaking a\nbusiness as sitting in an easy-chair and waiting on the news of it.\n\nIt was bitter cold, and we spent most of the day wrapped in our\ngreatcoats and buried deep in the straw. Blenkiron was a marvel. There\nwas no light for him to play Patience by, but he never complained. He\nslept a lot of the time, and when he was awake talked as cheerily as if\nhe were starting out on a holiday. He had one great comfort, his\ndyspepsia was gone. He sang hymns constantly to the benign Providence\nthat had squared his duodenum.\n\nMy only occupation was to listen for the guns. The first day after\nPeter left they were very quiet on the front nearest us, but in the\nlate evening they started a terrific racket. The next day they never\nstopped from dawn to dusk, so that it reminded me of that tremendous\nforty-eight hours before Loos. I tried to read into this some proof\nthat Peter had got through, but it would not work. It looked more like\nthe opposite, for this desperate hammering must mean that the frontal\nassault was still the Russian game.\n\nTwo or three times I climbed on the housetop for fresh air. The day was\nfoggy and damp, and I could see very little of the countryside.\nTransport was still bumping southward along the road to the Palantuken,\nand the slow wagon-loads of wounded returning. One thing I noticed,\nhowever; there was a perpetual coming and going between the house and\nthe city. Motors and mounted messengers were constantly arriving and\ndeparting, and I concluded that Hilda von Einem was getting ready for\nher part in the defence of Erzerum.\n\nThese ascents were all on the first day after Peter\'s going. The\nsecond day, when I tried the trap, I found it closed and heavily\nweighted. This must have been done by our friends, and very right,\ntoo. If the house were becoming a place of public resort, it would\nnever do for me to be journeying roof-ward.\n\nLate on the second night Hussin reappeared. It was after supper, when\nBlenkiron had gone peacefully to sleep and I was beginning to count the\nhours till the morning. I could not close an eye during these days and\nnot much at night.\n\nHussin did not light a lantern. I heard his key in the lock, and then\nhis light step close to where we lay.\n\n\'Are you asleep?\' he said, and when I answered he sat down beside me.\n\n\'The horses are found,\' he said, \'and the Master bids me tell you that\nwe start in the morning three hours before dawn.\'\n\nIt was welcome news. \'Tell me what is happening,\' I begged; \'we have\nbeen lying in this tomb for three days and heard nothing.\'\n\n\'The guns are busy,\' he said. \'The Allemans come to this place every\nhour, I know not for what. Also there has been a great search for you.\nThe searchers have been here, but they were sent away empty....\nSleep, my lord, for there is wild work before us.\'\n\nI did not sleep much, for I was strung too high with expectation, and I\nenvied Blenkiron his now eupeptic slumbers. But for an hour or so I\ndropped off, and my old nightmare came back. Once again I was in the\nthroat of a pass, hotly pursued, straining for some sanctuary which I\nknew I must reach. But I was no longer alone. Others were with me: how\nmany I could not tell, for when I tried to see their faces they\ndissolved in mist. Deep snow was underfoot, a grey sky was over us,\nblack peaks were on all sides, but ahead in the mist of the pass was\nthat curious _castrol_ which I had first seen in my dream on the\nErzerum road.\n\nI saw it distinct in every detail. It rose to the left of the road\nthrough the pass, above a hollow where great boulders stood out in the\nsnow. Its sides were steep, so that the snow had slipped off in\npatches, leaving stretches of glistening black shale. The _kranz_ at\nthe top did not rise sheer, but sloped at an angle of forty-five, and\non the very summit there seemed a hollow, as if the earth within the\nrock-rim had been beaten by weather into a cup.\n\nThat is often the way with a South African _castrol_, and I knew it was\nso with this. We were straining for it, but the snow clogged us, and\nour enemies were very close behind.\n\nThen I was awakened by a figure at my side. \'Get ready, my lord,\' it\nsaid; \'it is the hour to ride.\'\n\n\n\nLike sleep-walkers we moved into the sharp air. Hussin led us out of\nan old postern and then through a place like an orchard to the shelter\nof some tall evergreen trees. There horses stood, champing quietly\nfrom their nosebags. \'Good,\' I thought; \'a feed of oats before a big\neffort.\'\n\nThere were nine beasts for nine riders. We mounted without a word and\nfiled through a grove of trees to where a broken paling marked the\nbeginning of cultivated land. There for the matter of twenty minutes\nHussin chose to guide us through deep, clogging snow. He wanted to\navoid any sound till we were well beyond earshot of the house. Then we\nstruck a by-path which presently merged in a hard highway, running, as\nI judged, south-west by west. There we delayed no longer, but galloped\nfuriously into the dark.\n\nI had got back all my exhilaration. Indeed I was intoxicated with the\nmovement, and could have laughed out loud and sung. Under the black\ncanopy of the night perils are either forgotten or terribly alive.\nMine were forgotten. The darkness I galloped into led me to freedom\nand friends. Yes, and success, which I had not dared to hope and\nscarcely even to dream of.\n\nHussin rode first, with me at his side. I turned my head and saw\nBlenkiron behind me, evidently mortally unhappy about the pace we set\nand the mount he sat. He used to say that horse-exercise was good for\nhis liver, but it was a gentle amble and a short gallop that he liked,\nand not this mad helter-skelter. His thighs were too round to fit a\nsaddle leather. We passed a fire in a hollow, the bivouac of some\nTurkish unit, and all the horses shied violently. I knew by\nBlenkiron\'s oaths that he had lost his stirrups and was sitting on his\nhorse\'s neck.\n\nBeside him rode a tall figure swathed to the eyes in wrappings, and\nwearing round his neck some kind of shawl whose ends floated behind\nhim. Sandy, of course, had no European ulster, for it was months since\nhe had worn proper clothes. I wanted to speak to him, but somehow I\ndid not dare. His stillness forbade me. He was a wonderful fine\nhorseman, with his firm English hunting seat, and it was as well, for\nhe paid no attention to his beast. His head was still full of unquiet\nthoughts.\n\nThen the air around me began to smell acrid and raw, and I saw that a\nfog was winding up from the hollows.\n\n\'Here\'s the devil\'s own luck,\' I cried to Hussin. \'Can you guide us in\na mist?\'\n\n\'I do not know.\' He shook his head. \'I had counted on seeing the\nshape of the hills.\'\n\n\'We\'ve a map and compass, anyhow. But these make slow travelling. Pray\nGod it lifts!\'\n\nPresently the black vapour changed to grey, and the day broke. It was\nlittle comfort. The fog rolled in waves to the horses\' ears, and\nriding at the head of the party I could but dimly see the next rank.\n\n\'It is time to leave the road,\' said Hussin, \'or we may meet\ninquisitive folk.\'\n\nWe struck to the left, over ground which was for all the world like a\nScotch moor. There were pools of rain on it, and masses of tangled\nsnow-laden junipers, and long reefs of wet slaty stone. It was bad\ngoing, and the fog made it hopeless to steer a good course. I had out\nthe map and the compass, and tried to fix our route so as to round the\nflank of a spur of the mountains which separated us from the valley we\nwere aiming at.\n\n\'There\'s a stream ahead of us,\' I said to Hussin. \'Is it fordable?\'\n\n\'It is only a trickle,\' he said, coughing. \'This accursed mist is from\nEblis.\' But I knew long before we reached it that it was no trickle.\nIt was a hill stream coming down in spate, and, as I soon guessed, in a\ndeep ravine. Presently we were at its edge, one long whirl of yeasty\nfalls and brown rapids. We could as soon get horses over it as to the\ntopmost cliffs of the Palantuken.\n\nHussin stared at it in consternation. \'May Allah forgive my folly, for\nI should have known. We must return to the highway and find a bridge.\nMy sorrow, that I should have led my lords so ill.\'\n\nBack over that moor we went with my spirits badly damped. We had none\ntoo long a start, and Hilda von Einem would rouse heaven and earth to\ncatch us up. Hussin was forcing the pace, for his anxiety was as great\nas mine.\n\nBefore we reached the road the mist blew back and revealed a wedge of\ncountry right across to the hills beyond the river. It was a clear\nview, every object standing out wet and sharp in the light of morning.\nIt showed the bridge with horsemen drawn up across it, and it showed,\ntoo, cavalry pickets moving along the road.\n\nThey saw us at the same instant. A word was passed down the road, a\nshrill whistle blew, and the pickets put their horses at the bank and\nstarted across the moor.\n\n\'Did I not say this mist was from Eblis?\' growled Hussin, as we swung\nround and galloped back on our tracks. \'These cursed Zaptiehs have\nseen us, and our road is cut.\'\n\nI was for trying the stream at all costs, but Hussin pointed out that\nit would do us no good. The cavalry beyond the bridge was moving up\nthe other bank. \'There is a path through the hills that I know, but it\nmust be travelled on foot. If we can increase our lead and the mist\ncloaks us, there is yet a chance.\'\n\nIt was a weary business plodding up to the skirts of the hills. We had\nthe pursuit behind us now, and that put an edge on every difficulty.\nThere were long banks of broken screes, I remember, where the snow\nslipped in wreaths from under our feet. Great boulders had to be\ncircumvented, and patches of bog, where the streams from the snows\nfirst made contact with the plains, mired us to our girths. Happily\nthe mist was down again, but this, though it hindered the chase,\nlessened the chances of Hussin finding the path.\n\nHe found it nevertheless. There was the gully and the rough mule-track\nleading upwards. But there also had been a landslip, quite recent from\nthe marks. A large scar of raw earth had broken across the hillside,\nwhich with the snow above it looked like a slice cut out of an iced\nchocolate-cake.\n\nWe stared blankly for a second, till we recognized its hopelessness.\n\n\'I\'m trying for the crags,\' I said. \'Where there once was a way\nanother can be found.\'\n\n\'And be picked off at their leisure by these marksmen,\' said Hussin\ngrimly. \'Look!\'\n\nThe mist had opened again, and a glance behind showed me the pursuit\nclosing up on us. They were now less than three hundred yards off. We\nturned our horses and made off east-ward along the skirts of the cliffs.\n\nThen Sandy spoke for the first time. \'I don\'t know how you fellows\nfeel, but I\'m not going to be taken. There\'s nothing much to do except\nto find a place and put up a fight. We can sell our lives dearly.\'\n\n\'That\'s about all,\' said Blenkiron cheerfully. He had suffered such\ntortures on that gallop that he welcomed any kind of stationary fight.\n\n\'Serve out the arms,\' said Sandy.\n\nThe Companions all carried rifles slung across their shoulders. Hussin,\nfrom a deep saddle-bag, brought out rifles and bandoliers for the rest\nof us. As I laid mine across my saddle-bow I saw it was a German\nMauser of the latest pattern.\n\n\'It\'s hell-for-leather till we find a place for a stand,\' said Sandy.\n\'The game\'s against us this time.\'\n\nOnce more we entered the mist, and presently found better going on a\nlong stretch of even slope. Then came a rise, and on the crest of it I\nsaw the sun. Presently we dipped into bright daylight and looked down\non a broad glen, with a road winding up it to a pass in the range. I\nhad expected this. It was one way to the Palantuken pass, some miles\nsouth of the house where we had been lodged.\n\nAnd then, as I looked southward, I saw what I had been watching for for\ndays. A little hill split the valley, and on its top was a _kranz_ of\nrocks. It was the _castrol_ of my persistent dream.\n\nOn that I promptly took charge. \'There\'s our fort,\' I cried. \'If we\nonce get there we can hold it for a week. Sit down and ride for it.\'\n\nWe bucketed down that hillside like men possessed, even Blenkiron\nsticking on manfully among the twists and turns and slithers. Presently\nwe were on the road and were racing past marching infantry and gun\nteams and empty wagons. I noted that most seemed to be moving downward\nand few going up. Hussin screamed some words in Turkish that secured\nus a passage, but indeed our crazy speed left them staring. Out of a\ncorner of my eye I saw that Sandy had flung off most of his wrappings\nand seemed to be all a dazzle of rich colour. But I had thought for\nnothing except the little hill, now almost fronting us across the\nshallow glen.\n\nNo horses could breast that steep. We urged them into the hollow, and\nthen hastily dismounted, humped the packs, and began to struggle up the\nside of the _castrol_. It was strewn with great boulders, which gave a\nkind of cover that very soon was needed. For, snatching a glance back,\nI saw that our pursuers were on the road above us and were getting\nready to shoot.\n\nAt normal times we would have been easy marks, but, fortunately, wisps\nand streamers of mist now clung about that hollow. The rest could fend\nfor themselves, so I stuck to Blenkiron and dragged him, wholly\nbreathless, by the least exposed route. Bullets spattered now and then\nagainst the rocks, and one sang unpleasantly near my head. In this way\nwe covered three-fourths of the distance, and had only the bare dozen\nyards where the gradient eased off up to the edge of the _kranz_.\n\nBlenkiron got hit in the leg, our only casualty. There was nothing for\nit but to carry him, so I swung him on my shoulders, and with a\nbursting heart did that last lap. It was hottish work, and the bullets\nwere pretty thick about us, but we all got safely to the _kranz_, and a\nshort scramble took us over the edge. I laid Blenkiron inside the\n_castrol_ and started to prepare our defence.\n\nWe had little time to do it. Out of the thin fog figures were coming,\ncrouching in cover. The place we were in was a natural redoubt, except\nthat there were no loopholes or sandbags. We had to show our heads\nover the rim to shoot, but the danger was lessened by the superb field\nof fire given by those last dozen yards of glacis. I posted the men\nand waited, and Blenkiron, with a white face, insisted on taking his\nshare, announcing that he used to be handy with a gun.\n\nI gave the order that no man was to shoot till the enemy had come out\nof the rocks on to the glacis. The thing ran right round the top, and\nwe had to watch all sides to prevent them getting us in flank or rear.\nHussin\'s rifle cracked out presently from the back, so my precautions\nhad not been needless.\n\nWe were all three fair shots, though none of us up to Peter\'s\nmiraculous standard, and the Companions, too, made good practice. The\nMauser was the weapon I knew best, and I didn\'t miss much. The\nattackers never had a chance, for their only hope was to rush us by\nnumbers, and, the whole party being not above two dozen, they were far\ntoo few. I think we killed three, for their bodies were left lying,\nand wounded at least six, while the rest fell back towards the road.\nIn a quarter of an hour it was all over.\n\n\'They are dogs of Kurds,\' I heard Hussin say fiercely. \'Only a Kurdish\n_giaour_ would fire on the livery of the Kaaba.\'\n\nThen I had a good look at Sandy. He had discarded shawls and\nwrappings, and stood up in the strangest costume man ever wore in\nbattle. Somehow he had procured field-boots and an old pair of\nriding-breeches. Above these, reaching well below his middle, he had a\nwonderful silken jibbah or ephod of a bright emerald. I call it silk,\nbut it was like no silk I have ever known, so exquisite in the mesh,\nwith such a sheen and depth in it. Some strange pattern was woven on\nthe breast, which in the dim light I could not trace. I\'ll warrant no\nrarer or costlier garment was ever exposed to lead on a bleak winter\nhill.\n\nSandy seemed unconscious of his garb. His eye, listless no more,\nscanned the hollow. \'That\'s only the overture,\' he cried. \'The opera\nwill soon begin. We must put a breastwork up in these gaps or they\'ll\npick us off from a thousand yards.\'\n\nI had meantime roughly dressed Blenkiron\'s wound with a linen rag which\nHussin provided. It was from a ricochet bullet which had chipped into\nhis left shin. Then I took a hand with the others in getting up\nearthworks to complete the circuit of the defence. It was no easy job,\nfor we wrought only with our knives and had to dig deep down below the\nsnowy gravel. As we worked I took stock of our refuge.\n\nThe _castrol_ was a rough circle about ten yards in diameter, its\ninterior filled with boulders and loose stones, and its parapet about\nfour feet high. The mist had cleared for a considerable space, and I\ncould see the immediate surroundings. West, beyond the hollow, was the\nroad we had come, where now the remnants of the pursuit were clustered.\nNorth, the hill fell steeply to the valley bottom, but to the south,\nafter a dip there was a ridge which shut the view. East lay another\nfork of the stream, the chief fork I guessed, and it was evidently\nfollowed by the main road to the pass, for I saw it crowded with\ntransport. The two roads seemed to converge somewhere farther south of\nmy sight.\n\nI guessed we could not be very far from the front, for the noise of\nguns sounded very near, both the sharp crack of the field-pieces, and\nthe deeper boom of the howitzers. More, I could hear the chatter of\nthe machine-guns, a magpie note among the baying of hounds. I even saw\nthe bursting of Russian shells, evidently trying to reach the main\nroad. One big fellow--an eight-inch--landed not ten yards from a\nconvoy to the east of us, and another in the hollow through which we\nhad come. These were clearly ranging shots, and I wondered if the\nRussians had observation-posts on the heights to mark them. If so,\nthey might soon try a curtain, and we should be very near its edge. It\nwould be an odd irony if we were the target of friendly shells.\n\n\'By the Lord Harry,\' I heard Sandy say, \'if we had a brace of\nmachine-guns we could hold this place against a division.\'\n\n\'What price shells?\' I asked. \'If they get a gun up they can blow us\nto atoms in ten minutes.\'\n\n\'Please God the Russians keep them too busy for that,\' was his answer.\n\nWith anxious eyes I watched our enemies on the road. They seemed to\nhave grown in numbers. They were signalling, too, for a white flag\nfluttered. Then the mist rolled down on us again, and our prospect was\nlimited to ten yards of vapour.\n\n\'Steady,\' I cried; \'they may try to rush us at any moment. Every man\nkeep his eye on the edge of the fog, and shoot at the first sign.\'\n\nFor nearly half an hour by my watch we waited in that queer white\nworld, our eyes smarting with the strain of peering. The sound of the\nguns seemed to be hushed, and everything grown deathly quiet.\nBlenkiron\'s squeal, as he knocked his wounded leg against a rock, made\nevery man start.\n\n\nThen out of the mist there came a voice.\n\nIt was a woman\'s voice, high, penetrating, and sweet, but it spoke in\nno tongue I knew. Only Sandy understood. He made a sudden movement as\nif to defend himself against a blow.\n\nThe speaker came into clear sight on the glacis a yard or two away.\nMine was the first face she saw.\n\n\'I come to offer terms,\' she said in English. \'Will you permit me to\nenter?\'\n\nI could do nothing except take off my cap and say, \'Yes, ma\'am.\'\n\nBlenkiron, snuggled up against the parapet, was cursing furiously below\nhis breath.\n\nShe climbed up the _kranz_ and stepped over the edge as lightly as a\ndeer. Her clothes were strange--spurred boots and breeches over which\nfell a short green kirtle. A little cap skewered with a jewelled pin\nwas on her head, and a cape of some coarse country cloth hung from her\nshoulders. She had rough gauntlets on her hands, and she carried for\nweapon a riding-whip. The fog-crystals clung to her hair, I remember,\nand a silvery film of fog lay on her garments.\n\nI had never before thought of her as beautiful. Strange, uncanny,\nwonderful, if you like, but the word beauty had too kindly and human a\nsound for such a face. But as she stood with heightened colour, her\neyes like stars, her poise like a wild bird\'s, I had to confess that\nshe had her own loveliness. She might be a devil, but she was also a\nqueen. I considered that there might be merits in the prospect of\nriding by her side into Jerusalem.\n\nSandy stood rigid, his face very grave and set. She held out both\nhands to him, speaking softly in Turkish. I noticed that the six\nCompanions had disappeared from the _castrol_ and were somewhere out of\nsight on the farther side.\n\nI do not know what she said, but from her tone, and above all from her\neyes, I judged that she was pleading--pleading for his return, for his\npartnership in her great adventure; pleading, for all I knew, for his\nlove.\n\nHis expression was like a death-mask, his brows drawn tight in a little\nfrown and his jaw rigid.\n\n\'Madam,\' he said, \'I ask you to tell your business quick and to tell it\nin English. My friends must hear it as well as me.\'\n\n\'Your friends!\' she cried. \'What has a prince to do with these\nhirelings? Your slaves, perhaps, but not your friends.\'\n\n\'My friends,\' Sandy repeated grimly. \'You must know, Madam, that I am\na British officer.\'\n\nThat was beyond doubt a clean staggering stroke. What she had thought\nof his origin God knows, but she had never dreamed of this. Her eyes\ngrew larger and more lustrous, her lips parted as if to speak, but her\nvoice failed her. Then by an effort she recovered herself, and out of\nthat strange face went all the glow of youth and ardour. It was again\nthe unholy mask I had first known.\n\n\'And these others?\' she asked in a level voice.\n\n\'One is a brother officer of my regiment. The other is an American\nfriend. But all three of us are on the same errand. We came east to\ndestroy Greenmantle and your devilish ambitions. You have yourself\ndestroyed your prophets, and now it is your turn to fail and disappear.\nMake no mistake, Madam; that folly is over. I will tear this sacred\ngarment into a thousand pieces and scatter them on the wind. The\npeople wait today for the revelation, but none will come. You may kill\nus if you can, but we have at least crushed a lie and done service to\nour country.\'\n\nI would not have taken my eyes from her face for a king\'s ransom. I\nhave written that she was a queen, and of that there is no manner of\ndoubt. She had the soul of a conqueror, for not a flicker of weakness\nor disappointment marred her air. Only pride and the stateliest\nresolution looked out of her eyes.\n\n\'I said I came to offer terms. I will still offer them, though they\nare other than I thought. For the fat American, I will send him home\nsafely to his own country. I do not make war on such as he. He is\nGermany\'s foe, not mine. You,\' she said, turning fiercely on me, \'I\nwill hang before dusk.\'\n\nNever in my life had I been so pleased. I had got my revenge at last.\nThis woman had singled me out above the others as the object of her\nwrath, and I almost loved her for it.\n\nShe turned to Sandy, and the fierceness went out of her face.\n\n\'You seek the truth,\' she said. \'So also do I, and if we use a lie it\nis only to break down a greater. You are of my household in spirit,\nand you alone of all men I have seen are fit to ride with me on my\nmission. Germany may fail, but I shall not fail. I offer you the\ngreatest career that mortal has known. I offer you a task which will\nneed every atom of brain and sinew and courage. Will you refuse that\ndestiny?\'\n\nI do not know what effect this vapouring might have had in hot scented\nrooms, or in the languor of some rich garden; but up on that cold\nhill-top it was as unsubstantial as the mist around us. It sounded not\neven impressive, only crazy.\n\n\'I stay with my friends,\' said Sandy.\n\n\'Then I will offer more. I will save your friends. They, too, shall\nshare in my triumph.\'\n\nThis was too much for Blenkiron. He scrambled to his feet to speak the\nprotest that had been wrung from his soul, forgot his game leg, and\nrolled back on the ground with a groan.\n\nThen she seemed to make a last appeal. She spoke in Turkish now, and I\ndo not know what she said, but I judged it was the plea of a woman to\nher lover. Once more she was the proud beauty, but there was a tremor\nin her pride--I had almost written tenderness. To listen to her was\nlike horrid treachery, like eavesdropping on something pitiful. I know\nmy cheeks grew scarlet and Blenkiron turned away his head.\n\nSandy\'s face did not move. He spoke in English.\n\n\'You can offer me nothing that I desire,\' he said. \'I am the servant\nof my country, and her enemies are mine. I can have neither part nor\nlot with you. That is my answer, Madam von Einem.\'\n\nThen her steely restraint broke. It was like a dam giving before a\npent-up mass of icy water. She tore off one of her gauntlets and\nhurled it in his face. Implacable hate looked out of her eyes.\n\n\'I have done with you,\' she cried. \'You have scorned me, but you have\ndug your own grave.\'\n\nShe leaped on the parapet and the next second was on the glacis. Once\nmore the mist had fled, and across the hollow I saw a field-gun in\nplace and men around it who were not Turkish. She waved her hand to\nthem, and hastened down the hillside.\n\nBut at that moment I heard the whistle of a long-range Russian shell.\nAmong the boulders there was the dull shock of an explosion and a\nmushroom of red earth. It all passed in an instant of time: I saw the\ngunners on the road point their hands and I heard them cry; I heard\ntoo, a kind of sob from Blenkiron--all this before I realized myself\nwhat had happened. The next thing I saw was Sandy, already beyond the\nglacis, leaping with great bounds down the hill. They were shooting at\nhim, but he heeded them not. For the space of a minute he was out of\nsight, and his whereabouts was shown only by the patter of bullets.\n\nThen he came back--walking quite slowly up the last slope, and he was\ncarrying something in his arms. The enemy fired no more; they realized\nwhat had happened.\n\nHe laid his burden down gently in a corner of the _castrol_. The cap\nhad fallen off, and the hair was breaking loose. The face was very\nwhite but there was no wound or bruise on it.\n\n\'She was killed at once,\' I heard him saying. \'Her back was broken by\na shell-fragment. Dick, we must bury her here ... You see, she ...\nshe liked me. I can make her no return but this.\'\n\nWe set the Companions to guard, and with infinite slowness, using our\nhands and our knives, we made a shallow grave below the eastern\nparapet. When it was done we covered her face with the linen cloak\nwhich Sandy had worn that morning. He lifted the body and laid it\nreverently in its place.\n\n\'I did not know that anything could be so light,\' he said.\n\nIt wasn\'t for me to look on at that kind of scene. I went to the\nparapet with Blenkiron\'s field-glasses and had a stare at our friends\non the road. There was no Turk there, and I guessed why, for it would\nnot be easy to use the men of Islam against the wearer of the green\nephod. The enemy were German or Austrian, and they had a field-gun.\nThey seemed to have got it laid on our fort; but they were waiting. As\nI looked I saw behind them a massive figure I seemed to recognize.\nStumm had come to see the destruction of his enemies.\n\nTo the east I saw another gun in the fields just below the main road.\nThey had got us on both sides, and there was no way of escape. Hilda\nvon Einem was to have a noble pyre and goodly company for the dark\njourney.\n\nDusk was falling now, a clear bright dusk where the stars pricked\nthrough a sheen of amethyst. The artillery were busy all around the\nhorizon, and towards the pass on the other road, where Fort Palantuken\nstood, there was the dust and smoke of a furious bombardment. It seemed\nto me, too, that the guns on the other fronts had come nearer. Deve\nBoyun was hidden by a spur of hill, but up in the north, white clouds,\nlike the streamers of evening, were hanging over the Euphrates glen.\nThe whole firmament hummed and twanged like a taut string that has been\nstruck ...\n\nAs I looked, the gun to the west fired--the gun where Stumm was. The\nshell dropped ten yards to our right. A second later another fell\nbehind us.\n\nBlenkiron had dragged himself to the parapet. I don\'t suppose he had\never been shelled before, but his face showed curiosity rather than\nfear.\n\n\'Pretty poor shooting, I reckon,\' he said.\n\n\'On the contrary,\' I said, \'they know their business. They\'re\nbracketing ...\'\n\nThe words were not out of my mouth when one fell right among us. It\nstruck the far rim of the _castrol_, shattering the rock, but bursting\nmainly outside. We all ducked, and barring some small scratches no one\nwas a penny the worse. I remember that much of the debris fell on\nHilda von Einem\'s grave.\n\nI pulled Blenkiron over the far parapet, and called on the rest to\nfollow, meaning to take cover on the rough side of the hill. But as we\nshowed ourselves shots rang out from our front, shots fired from a\nrange of a few hundred yards. It was easy to see what had happened.\nRiflemen had been sent to hold us in rear. They would not assault so\nlong as we remained in the _castrol_, but they would block any attempt\nto find safety outside it. Stumm and his gun had us at their mercy.\n\nWe crouched below the parapet again. \'We may as well toss for it,\' I\nsaid. \'There\'s only two ways--to stay here and be shelled or try to\nbreak through those fellows behind. Either\'s pretty unhealthy.\'\n\nBut I knew there was no choice. With Blenkiron crippled we were pinned\nto the _castrol_. Our numbers were up all right.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\nThe Guns of the North\n\nBut no more shells fell.\n\nThe night grew dark and showed a field of glittering stars, for the air\nwas sharpening again towards frost. We waited for an hour, crouching\njust behind the far parapets, but never came that ominous familiar\nwhistle.\n\nThen Sandy rose and stretched himself. \'I\'m hungry,\' he said. \'Let\'s\nhave out the food, Hussin. We\'ve eaten nothing since before daybreak.\nI wonder what is the meaning of this respite?\'\n\nI fancied I knew.\n\n\'It\'s Stumm\'s way,\' I said. \'He wants to torture us. He\'ll keep us\nhours on tenterhooks, while he sits over yonder exulting in what he\nthinks we\'re enduring. He has just enough imagination for that ... He\nwould rush us if he had the men. As it is, he\'s going to blow us to\npieces, but do it slowly and smack his lips over it.\'\n\nSandy yawned. \'We\'ll disappoint him, for we won\'t be worried, old man.\nWe three are beyond that kind of fear.\'\n\n\'Meanwhile we\'re going to do the best we can,\' I said. \'He\'s got the\nexact range for his whizz-bangs. We\'ve got to find a hole somewhere\njust outside the _castrol_, and some sort of head-cover. We\'re bound\nto get damaged whatever happens, but we\'ll stick it out to the end.\nWhen they think they have finished with us and rush the place, there\nmay be one of us alive to put a bullet through old Stumm. What do you\nsay?\'\n\nThey agreed, and after our meal Sandy and I crawled out to prospect,\nleaving the others on guard in case there should be an attack. We\nfound a hollow in the glacis a little south of the _castrol_, and,\nworking very quietly, managed to enlarge it and cut a kind of shallow\ncave in the hill. It would be no use against a direct hit, but it\nwould give some cover from flying fragments. As I read the situation,\nStumm could land as many shells as he pleased in the _castrol_ and\nwouldn\'t bother to attend to the flanks. When the bad shelling began\nthere would be shelter for one or two in the cave.\n\nOur enemies were watchful. The riflemen on the east burnt Very flares\nat intervals, and Stumm\'s lot sent up a great star-rocket. I remember\nthat just before midnight hell broke loose round Fort Palantuken. No\nmore Russian shells came into our hollow, but all the road to the east\nwas under fire, and at the Fort itself there was a shattering explosion\nand a queer scarlet glow which looked as if a magazine had been hit.\nFor about two hours the firing was intense, and then it died down. But\nit was towards the north that I kept turning my head. There seemed to\nbe something different in the sound there, something sharper in the\nreport of the guns, as if shells were dropping in a narrow valley whose\nrock walls doubled the echo. Had the Russians by any blessed chance\nworked round that flank?\n\nI got Sandy to listen, but he shook his head. \'Those guns are a dozen\nmiles off,\' he said. \'They\'re no nearer than three days ago. But it\nlooks as if the sportsmen on the south might have a chance. When they\nbreak through and stream down the valley, they\'ll be puzzled to account\nfor what remains of us ... We\'re no longer three adventurers in the\nenemy\'s country. We\'re the advance guard of the Allies. Our pals\ndon\'t know about us, and we\'re going to be cut off, which has happened\nto advance guards before now. But all the same, we\'re in our own\nbattle-line again. Doesn\'t that cheer you, Dick?\'\n\nIt cheered me wonderfully, for I knew now what had been the weight on\nmy heart ever since I accepted Sir Walter\'s mission. It was the\nloneliness of it. I was fighting far away from my friends, far away\nfrom the true fronts of battle. It was a side-show which, whatever its\nimportance, had none of the exhilaration of the main effort. But now\nwe had come back to familiar ground. We were like the Highlanders cut\noff at Cite St Auguste on the first day of Loos, or those Scots Guards\nat Festubert of whom I had heard. Only, the others did not know of it,\nwould never hear of it. If Peter succeeded he might tell the tale, but\nmost likely he was lying dead somewhere in the no-man\'s-land between\nthe lines. We should never be heard of again any more, but our work\nremained. Sir Walter would know that, and he would tell our few\nbelongings that we had gone out in our country\'s service.\n\nWe were in the _castrol_ again, sitting under the parapets. The same\nthoughts must have been in Sandy\'s mind, for he suddenly laughed.\n\n\'It\'s a queer ending, Dick. We simply vanish into the infinite. If\nthe Russians get through they will never recognize what is left of us\namong so much of the wreckage of battle. The snow will soon cover us,\nand when the spring comes there will only be a few bleached bones.\nUpon my soul it is the kind of death I always wanted.\' And he quoted\nsoftly to himself a verse of an old Scots ballad:\n\n \'Mony\'s the ane for him maks mane,\n But nane sall ken whar he is gane.\n Ower his white banes, when they are bare,\n The wind sall blaw for evermair.\'\n\n\n\'But our work lives,\' I cried, with a sudden great gasp of happiness.\n\'It\'s the job that matters, not the men that do it. And our job\'s\ndone. We have won, old chap--won hands down--and there is no going\nback on that. We have won anyway; and if Peter has had a slice of\nluck, we\'ve scooped the pool ... After all, we never expected to come\nout of this thing with our lives.\'\n\nBlenkiron, with his leg stuck out stiffly before him, was humming\nquietly to himself, as he often did when he felt cheerful. He had only\none song, \'John Brown\'s Body\'; usually only a line at a time, but now\nhe got as far as the whole verse:\n\n \'He captured Harper\'s Ferry, with his nineteen men so true,\n And he frightened old Virginny till she trembled through and through.\n They hung him for a traitor, themselves the traitor crew,\n But his soul goes marching along.\'\n\n\n\'Feeling good?\' I asked.\n\n\'Fine. I\'m about the luckiest man on God\'s earth, Major. I\'ve always\nwanted to get into a big show, but I didn\'t see how it would come the\nway of a homely citizen like me, living in a steam-warmed house and\ngoing down town to my office every morning. I used to envy my old dad\nthat fought at Chattanooga, and never forgot to tell you about it. But\nI guess Chattanooga was like a scrap in a Bowery bar compared to this.\nWhen I meet the old man in Glory he\'ll have to listen some to me.\'\n\nIt was just after Blenkiron spoke that we got a reminder of Stumm\'s\npresence. The gun was well laid, for a shell plumped on the near edge\nof the castro. It made an end of one of the Companions who was on\nguard there, badly wounded another, and a fragment gashed my thigh. We\ntook refuge in the shallow cave, but some wild shooting from the east\nside brought us back to the parapets, for we feared an attack. None\ncame, nor any more shells, and once again the night was quiet.\n\nI asked Blenkiron if he had any near relatives.\n\n\'Why, no, except a sister\'s son, a college-boy who has no need of his\nuncle. It\'s fortunate that we three have no wives. I haven\'t any\nregrets, neither, for I\'ve had a mighty deal out of life. I was\nthinking this morning that it was a pity I was going out when I had\njust got my duo-denum to listen to reason. But I reckon that\'s another\nof my mercies. The good God took away the pain in my stomach so that I\nmight go to Him with a clear head and a thankful heart.\'\n\n\'We\'re lucky fellows,\' said Sandy; \'we\'ve all had our whack. When I\nremember the good times I\'ve had I could sing a hymn of praise. We\'ve\nlived long enough to know ourselves, and to shape ourselves into some\nkind of decency. But think of those boys who have given their lives\nfreely when they scarcely knew what life meant. They were just at the\nbeginning of the road, and they didn\'t know what dreary bits lay before\nthem. It was all sunshiny and bright-coloured, and yet they gave it up\nwithout a moment\'s doubt. And think of the men with wives and children\nand homes that were the biggest things in life to them. For fellows\nlike us to shirk would be black cowardice. It\'s small credit for us to\nstick it out. But when those others shut their teeth and went forward,\nthey were blessed heroes....\'\n\nAfter that we fell silent. A man\'s thoughts at a time like that seem\nto be double-powered, and the memory becomes very sharp and clear. I\ndon\'t know what was in the others\' minds, but I know what filled my\nown...\n\nI fancy it isn\'t the men who get most out of the world and are always\nbuoyant and cheerful that most fear to die. Rather it is the\nweak-engined souls who go about with dull eyes, that cling most\nfiercely to life. They have not the joy of being alive which is a kind\nof earnest of immortality ... I know that my thoughts were chiefly\nabout the jolly things that I had seen and done; not regret, but\ngratitude. The panorama of blue noons on the veld unrolled itself\nbefore me, and hunter\'s nights in the bush, the taste of food and\nsleep, the bitter stimulus of dawn, the joy of wild adventure, the\nvoices of old staunch friends. Hitherto the war had seemed to make a\nbreak with all that had gone before, but now the war was only part of\nthe picture. I thought of my battalion, and the good fellows there,\nmany of whom had fallen on the Loos parapets. I had never looked to\ncome out of that myself. But I had been spared, and given the chance\nof a greater business, and I had succeeded. That was the tremendous\nfact, and my mood was humble gratitude to God and exultant pride.\nDeath was a small price to pay for it. As Blenkiron would have said, I\nhad got good value in the deal.\n\nThe night was getting bitter cold, as happens before dawn. It was\nfrost again, and the sharpness of it woke our hunger. I got out the\nremnants of the food and wine and we had a last meal. I remember we\npledged each other as we drank.\n\n\'We have eaten our Passover Feast,\' said Sandy. \'When do you look for\nthe end?\'\n\n\'After dawn,\' I said. \'Stumm wants daylight to get the full savour of\nhis revenge.\'\n\nSlowly the sky passed from ebony to grey, and black shapes of hill\noutlined themselves against it. A wind blew down the valley, bringing\nthe acrid smell of burning, but something too of the freshness of morn.\nIt stirred strange thoughts in me, and woke the old morning vigour of\nthe blood which was never to be mine again. For the first time in that\nlong vigil I was torn with a sudden regret.\n\n\'We must get into the cave before it is full light,\' I said. \'We had\nbetter draw lots for the two to go.\'\n\nThe choice fell on one of the Companions and Blenkiron. \'You can count\nme out,\' said the latter. \'If it\'s your wish to find a man to be alive\nwhen our friends come up to count their spoil, I guess I\'m the worst of\nthe lot. I\'d prefer, if you don\'t mind, to stay here. I\'ve made my\npeace with my Maker, and I\'d like to wait quietly on His call. I\'ll\nplay a game of Patience to pass the time.\'\n\nHe would take no denial, so we drew again, and the lot fell to Sandy.\n\n\'If I\'m the last to go,\' he said, \'I promise I don\'t miss. Stumm won\'t\nbe long in following me.\'\n\nHe shook hands with his cheery smile, and he and the Companion slipped\nover the parapet in the final shadows before dawn.\n\nBlenkiron spread his Patience cards on a flat rock, and dealt out the\nDouble Napoleon. He was perfectly calm, and hummed to himself his only\ntune. For myself I was drinking in my last draught of the hill air.\nMy contentment was going. I suddenly felt bitterly loath to die.\n\nSomething of the same kind must have passed through Blenkiron\'s head.\nHe suddenly looked up and asked, \'Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see\nanybody coming?\'\n\nI stood close to the parapet, watching every detail of the landscape as\nshown by the revealing daybreak. Up on the shoulders of the\nPalantuken, snowdrifts lipped over the edges of the cliffs. I wondered\nwhen they would come down as avalanches. There was a kind of croft on\none hillside, and from a hut the smoke of breakfast was beginning to\ncurl. Stumm\'s gunners were awake and apparently holding council. Far\ndown on the main road a convoy was moving--I heard the creak of the\nwheels two miles away, for the air was deathly still.\n\nThen, as if a spring had been loosed, the world suddenly leaped to a\nhideous life. With a growl the guns opened round all the horizon.\nThey were especially fierce to the south, where a _rafale_ beat as I\nhad never heard it before. The one glance I cast behind me showed the\ngap in the hills choked with fumes and dust.\n\nBut my eyes were on the north. From Erzerum city tall tongues of flame\nleaped from a dozen quarters. Beyond, towards the opening of the\nEuphrates glen, there was the sharp crack of field-guns. I strained\neyes and ears, mad with impatience, and I read the riddle.\n\n\'Sandy,\' I yelled, \'Peter has got through. The Russians are round the\nflank. The town is burning. Glory to God, we\'ve won, we\'ve won!\'\n\nAnd as I spoke the earth seemed to split beside me, and I was flung\nforward on the gravel which covered Hilda von Einem\'s grave.\n\nAs I picked myself up, and to my amazement found myself uninjured, I\nsaw Blenkiron rubbing the dust out of his eyes and arranging a\ndisordered card. He had stopped humming, and was singing aloud:\n\n \'He captured Harper\'s Ferry, with his nineteen men so true\n And he frightened old Virginny ...\'\n\n\'Say, Major,\' he cried, \'I believe this game of mine is coming out.\'\n\nI was now pretty well mad. The thought that old Peter had won, that we\nhad won beyond our wildest dreams, that if we died there were those\ncoming who would exact the uttermost vengeance, rode my brain like a\nfever. I sprang on the parapet and waved my hand to Stumm, shouting\ndefiance. Rifle shots cracked out from behind, and I leaped back just\nin time for the next shell.\n\nThe charge must have been short, for it was a bad miss, landing\nsomewhere on the glacis. The next was better and crashed on the near\nparapet, carving a great hole in the rocky _kranz_. This time my arm\nhung limp, broken by a fragment of stone, but I felt no pain.\nBlenkiron seemed to bear a charmed life, for he was smothered in dust,\nbut unhurt. He blew the dust away from his cards very gingerly and\nwent on playing.\n\nThen came a dud which dropped neatly inside on the soft ground.\nI was determined to break for the open and chance the rifle fire, for\nif Stumm went on shooting the _castrol_ was certain death. I caught\nBlenkiron round the middle, scattering his cards to the winds, and\njumped over the parapet.\n\n\'Don\'t apologize, Major,\' said he. \'The game was as good as won.\nBut for God\'s sake drop me, for if you wave me like the banner of\nfreedom I\'ll get plugged sure and good.\'\n\nMy one thought was to get cover for the next minutes, for I had an\ninstinct that our vigil was near its end. The defences of Erzerum were\ncrumbling like sand-castles, and it was a proof of the tenseness of my\nnerves that I seemed to be deaf to the sound. Stumm had seen us cross\nthe parapet, and he started to sprinkle all the surroundings of the\n_castrol_. Blenkiron and I lay like a working-party between the lines\ncaught by machine-guns, taking a pull on ourselves as best we could.\nSandy had some kind of cover, but we were on the bare farther slope,\nand the riflemen on that side might have had us at their mercy.\n\nBut no shots came from them. As I looked east, the hillside, which a\nlittle before had been held by our enemies, was as empty as the desert.\nAnd then I saw on the main road a sight which for a second time made me\nyell like a maniac. Down that glen came a throng of men and galloping\nlimbers--a crazy, jostling crowd, spreading away beyond the road to the\nsteep slopes, and leaving behind it many black dots to darken the\nsnows. The gates of the South had yielded, and our friends were\nthrough them.\n\nAt that sight I forgot all about our danger. I didn\'t give a cent for\nStumm\'s shells. I didn\'t believe he could hit me. The fate which had\nmercifully preserved us for the first taste of victory would see us\nthrough to the end.\n\nI remember bundling Blenkiron along the hill to find Sandy. But our\nnews was anticipated. For down our own side-glen came the same broken\ntumult of men. More; for at their backs, far up at the throat of the\npass, I saw horsemen--the horsemen of the pursuit. Old Nicholas had\nflung his cavalry in.\n\nSandy was on his feet, with his lips set and his eye abstracted. If\nhis face hadn\'t been burned black by weather it would have been pale as\na dish-clout. A man like him doesn\'t make up his mind for death and\nthen be given his life again without being wrenched out of his\nbearings. I thought he didn\'t understand what had happened, so I beat\nhim on the shoulders.\n\n\'Man, d\'you see?\' I cried. \'The Cossacks! The Cossacks! God! How\nthey\'re taking that slope! They\'re into them now. By heaven, we\'ll\nride with them! We\'ll get the gun horses!\'\n\nA little knoll prevented Stumm and his men from seeing what was\nhappening farther up the glen, till the first wave of the rout was on\nthem. He had gone on bombarding the _castrol_ and its environs while\nthe world was cracking over his head. The gun team was in the hollow\nbelow the road, and down the hill among the boulders we crawled,\nBlenkiron as lame as a duck, and me with a limp left arm.\n\nThe poor beasts were straining at their pickets and sniffing the\nmorning wind, which brought down the thick fumes of the great\nbombardment and the indescribable babbling cries of a beaten army.\nBefore we reached them that maddened horde had swept down on them, men\npanting and gasping in their flight, many of them bloody from wounds,\nmany tottering in the first stages of collapse and death. I saw the\nhorses seized by a dozen hands, and a desperate fight for their\npossession. But as we halted there our eyes were fixed on the battery\non the road above us, for round it was now sweeping the van of the\nretreat.\n\nI had never seen a rout before, when strong men come to the end of\ntheir tether and only their broken shadows stumble towards the refuge\nthey never find. No more had Stumm, poor devil. I had no ill-will\nleft for him, though coming down that hill I was rather hoping that the\ntwo of us might have a final scrap. He was a brute and a bully, but,\nby God! he was a man. I heard his great roar when he saw the tumult,\nand the next I saw was his monstrous figure working at the gun. He\nswung it south and turned it on the fugitives.\n\nBut he never fired it. The press was on him, and the gun was swept\nsideways. He stood up, a foot higher than any of them, and he seemed\nto be trying to check the rush with his pistol. There is power in\nnumbers, even though every unit is broken and fleeing. For a second to\nthat wild crowd Stumm was the enemy, and they had strength enough to\ncrush him. The wave flowed round and then across him. I saw the\nbutt-ends of rifles crash on his head and shoulders, and the next\nsecond the stream had passed over his body.\n\nThat was God\'s judgement on the man who had set himself above his kind.\n\nSandy gripped my shoulder and was shouting in my ear:\n\n\'They\'re coming, Dick. Look at the grey devils ... Oh, God be\nthanked, it\'s our friends!\'\n\nThe next minute we were tumbling down the hillside, Blenkiron hopping\non one leg between us. I heard dimly Sandy crying, \'Oh, well done our\nside!\' and Blenkiron declaiming about Harper\'s Ferry, but I had no\nvoice at all and no wish to shout. I know the tears were in my eyes,\nand that if I had been left alone I would have sat down and cried with\npure thankfulness. For sweeping down the glen came a cloud of grey\ncavalry on little wiry horses, a cloud which stayed not for the rear of\nthe fugitives, but swept on like a flight of rainbows, with the steel\nof their lance-heads glittering in the winter sun. They were riding\nfor Erzerum.\n\nRemember that for three months we had been with the enemy and had never\nseen the face of an Ally in arms. We had been cut off from the\nfellowship of a great cause, like a fort surrounded by an army. And\nnow we were delivered, and there fell around us the warm joy of\ncomradeship as well as the exultation of victory.\n\nWe flung caution to the winds, and went stark mad. Sandy, still in his\nemerald coat and turban, was scrambling up the farther slope of the\nhollow, yelling greetings in every language known to man. The leader\nsaw him, with a word checked his men for a moment--it was marvellous to\nsee the horses reined in in such a break-neck ride--and from the\nsquadron half a dozen troopers swung loose and wheeled towards us.\nThen a man in a grey overcoat and a sheepskin cap was on the ground\nbeside us wringing our hands.\n\n\'You are safe, my old friends\'--it was Peter\'s voice that spoke--\'I\nwill take you back to our army, and get you breakfast.\'\n\n\'No, by the Lord, you won\'t,\' cried Sandy. \'We\'ve had the rough end of\nthe job and now we\'ll have the fun. Look after Blenkiron and these\nfellows of mine. I\'m going to ride knee by knee with your sportsmen\nfor the city.\'\n\nPeter spoke a word, and two of the Cossacks dismounted. The next I\nknew I was mixed up in the cloud of greycoats, galloping down the road\nup which the morning before we had strained to the _castrol_.\n\nThat was the great hour of my life, and to live through it was worth a\ndozen years of slavery. With a broken left arm I had little hold on my\nbeast, so I trusted my neck to him and let him have his will. Black\nwith dirt and smoke, hatless, with no kind of uniform, I was a wilder\nfigure than any Cossack. I soon was separated from Sandy, who had two\nhands and a better horse, and seemed resolute to press forward to the\nvery van. That would have been suicide for me, and I had all I could\ndo to keep my place in the bunch I rode with.\n\nBut, Great God! what an hour it was! There was loose shooting on our\nflank, but nothing to trouble us, though the gun team of some Austrian\nhowitzer, struggling madly at a bridge, gave us a bit of a tussle.\nEverything flitted past me like smoke, or like the mad finale of a\ndream just before waking. I knew the living movement under me, and the\ncompanionship of men, but all dimly, for at heart I was alone,\ngrappling with the realization of a new world. I felt the shadows of\nthe Palantuken glen fading, and the great burst of light as we emerged\non the wider valley. Somewhere before us was a pall of smoke seamed\nwith red flames, and beyond the darkness of still higher hills. All\nthat time I was dreaming, crooning daft catches of song to myself, so\nhappy, so deliriously happy that I dared not try to think. I kept\nmuttering a kind of prayer made up of Bible words to Him who had shown\nme His goodness in the land of the living.\n\nBut as we drew out from the skirts of the hills and began the long\nslope to the city, I woke to clear consciousness. I felt the smell of\nsheepskin and lathered horses, and above all the bitter smell of fire.\nDown in the trough lay Erzerum, now burning in many places, and from\nthe east, past the silent forts, horsemen were closing in on it. I\nyelled to my comrades that we were nearest, that we would be first in\nthe city, and they nodded happily and shouted their strange war-cries.\nAs we topped the last ridge I saw below me the van of our charge--a\ndark mass on the snow--while the broken enemy on both sides were\nflinging away their arms and scattering in the fields.\n\nIn the very front, now nearing the city ramparts, was one man. He was\nlike the point of the steel spear soon to be driven home. In the clear\nmorning air I could see that he did not wear the uniform of the\ninvaders. He was turbaned and rode like one possessed, and against the\nsnow I caught the dark sheen of emerald. As he rode it seemed that the\nfleeing Turks were stricken still, and sank by the roadside with eyes\nstrained after his unheeding figure ...\n\nThen I knew that the prophecy had been true, and that their prophet had\nnot failed them. The long-looked for revelation had come. Greenmantle\nhad appeared at last to an awaiting people.'"