“Good-night, my friend!” she said, softly, and Stewart, looking down at her, catching the starry sheen of her uplifted eyes, felt a wild desire to fling himself beside her, to take her in his arms——
Resolutely he turned away and piled his own bed at a little distance. It would have been safer, perhaps, had they slept side by side; but there was about her something delicate and virginal which kept him at a distance—and yet held him too, bound him powerfully, led him captive.
He was filled with the thought of her, as he lay gazing up into the spangled heavens—her beauty, her fire, her indomitable youth, her clear-eyed innocence which left him reverent and trembling. What was her story? Where were her people that they should permit her to take such desperate risks? Why had this great mission been confided to her—to a girl, young, inexperienced? And yet, the choice had evidently been a wise one. She had proved herself worthy of the trust. No one could have been quicker-witted, more ready of resource.
Well, the worst of it was over. They were safe out of Germany. It was only a question now of reaching a farmhouse, of hiring a wagon, of driving to the nearest station——
He stirred uneasily. That would mean good-by. But why should he go to Brussels? Why not turn south with her to France?
Sleep came to him as he was asking himself this question for the twentieth time.
It was full day when he awoke. He looked about for a full minute at the yellow grain, heavy-headed and ready for the harvest, before he remembered where he was. Then he rubbed his eyes and looked again—the wheat-field, certainly—that was all right; but what was that insistent murmur which filled his ears, which never ceased? He sat hastily erect and started to his feet—then as hastily dropped to his knees again and peered cautiously above the grain.
Along the road, as far in either direction as the eye could see, passed a mighty multitude, marching steadily westward. Stewart’s heart beat faster as he ran his eyes over that great host—thousands and tens of thousands, clad in greenish-gray, each with his rifle and blanket-roll, his full equipment complete to the smallest detail—the German army setting forth to war! Oh, wonderful, astounding, stupendous!—a myriad of men, moving as one man, obeying one man’s bidding, marching out to kill and to be killed.
And marching willingly, even eagerly. The bright morning, the sense of high adventure, the exhilaration of marching elbow to elbow with a thousand comrades—yes, and love of country, the thought that they were fighting for their Fatherland—all these uplifted the heart and made the eye sparkle. Forgotten for the moment were poignant farewells, the tears of women and of children. The round of daily duties, the quiet of the fireside, the circle of familiar faces—all that had receded far into the past. A new life had begun, a larger and more glorious life. They felt that they were men going forward to men’s work; they were drinking deep of a cup brimming with the joy of supreme experience!
There were jests and loud laughter; there were snatches of song; and presently a thousand voices were shouting what sounded to Stewart like a mighty hymn—shouting it in slow and solemn unison, marked by the tramp, tramp of their feet. Not until he caught the refrain did he know what it was—“Deutschland, Deutschland, über alles!”—the German battle-song, fit expression of the firm conviction that the Fatherland was first, was dearest, must be over all! And as he looked and listened, he felt his own heart thrill responsively, and a new definition of patriotism grouped itself in his mind.