“I’m only saying what Gaston—and others—say. This woman is a very great lady. A countess. She is an Alsatian—but not the right kind.”
“What do you mean by that?” interrupted Ruth.
“All Alsatians are not French at heart,” said the young man. “This French count married her years ago. She has two sons and both are in the French army. But it is said that she has had influence enough to keep them off the battle front.
“Oh, it sounds queer, and crazy, and all!” he added, with sudden vehemence. “But you saw that white thing flashing by yourself. It is never seen save at night, and always coming or going between the chateau and the battle lines, or between the lines themselves—out there in No Man’s Land.
“It used to race the country roads in the same direction—only as far as the then frontier—before the war. So they say. Months before the Germans spilled over into this country. There you have it.
“The military authorities believe it is a despatch-carrying dog. The peasants say the old countess is a werwolf. She keeps herself shut in the chateau with only a few servants. The military authorities can get nothing on her, and the peasants cross themselves when they pass her gate.”
Ruth said nothing for a minute or two. The guns grew louder in her ears, and the car came down a slight hill to the edge of a river. Here was the toll-bridge, and an old man came out with a shrouded lantern to take toll—and to look at their papers, too, for he was an official.
“Good evening, Gaston,” said Charlie Bragg.
“Evening, Monsieur,” was the cheerful reply.
The American lad stooped over his wheel to whisper: “Gaston! the werwolf just crossed the road three miles or so back, going toward——” and he nodded in the direction of the grumbling guns.