“Wer geht da?” (Who goes there?) as a stalwart, gray-cloaked sentry stepped out from the shadows of the roadside, with leveled and bayoneted musket.
“Ein Freund, ein armer Landsmann, Excellenz,” (a friend, a poor farmer, your excellency) answered Buck, gripping his revolver firmly.
“Stand out in the middle of the road where I can see you more plainly in the moonlight,” gruffly ordered the sentinel, poking at the seeming peasant with his sharp bayonet.
Buck obeyed him, feigning great humility. There was nothing suspicious to the German in his appearance, but—
“What are you doing out so late and alone on the highroad here?” demanded the sentry.
“Excellency, three weeks ago I had a home—such a nice cozy little place!—down the road a mile or so. I ran away into Muhlbruck when your army marched past on the road to Paris, and to-day I went back to see if there was anything left for me.”
“And did you find anything, Landsmann?”
“No, excellency. The place was swept clean; even the nice little cottage was half torn down.”
The burly German guffawed, as if at a huge joke.
“Now I know that you are telling me the truth, fellow,” he said. “I know your place well. Why, I myself helped burst in the door you locked so carefully on leaving. But you don’t bear me any ill-will for that, do you, now?”