“Yes,” said Kolfort, in an unsteady tone.
“Shall I come in? Is anything the matter?” and I felt the door pushed from the outside.
“No,” in the same unsteady tone. “No, I—I do not need you. You will take your men back to my house and—and wait for instructions.”
“And the prisoner, General? Shall we take her with us?”
“Tell him she has killed herself,” I whispered.
“There is no prisoner to take, Captain Berschoff. She has—has taken her own life. Leave that to me. Withdraw your men and send my carriage up to the door here for me.”
“Very good, General. Is that all?”
“Yes, that’s all.” The words came with a sigh of relief. I shut the door immediately, and we stood in the dark, near the window which the two officers had broken to get into the house, and listened as the captain walked quickly to the gates. Then came a word of command, followed by the scraping of the carriage wheels on the drive, and the sounds of the soldiers’ horses and the rattle of their accoutrements as they wheeled away along the road.
So far all was going well, and the crisis I feared had passed safely. The carriage drew up outside the door.
“Remember where to tell him to drive, Kutscherf,” I said sternly. “You have half earned your life, but you must go through with it.” I opened the door, linked my arm in his, and led him down the steps, and together we entered the carriage. He gave his order to the coachman through the window, and a moment later we started, turned out of the gates, and rattled along at a brave pace for the frontier.