At times he took his turn digging in the tunnel; at times he was one of the crowd of spectators upon the stand about the tennis court, who stamped and applauded loudly whenever the men working below signaled for a little noise to mask their more audible activities; at times he himself took part in the play.
Every few days groups of prisoners were permitted to take a tramp in the neighborhood under the escort of a couple of German officers. To obtain this privilege, each prisoner was required to give his parole not to attempt to escape while on these expeditions; but as the parole bound no one after the return to the fortress, the prisoners gave it. Gerry in this way obtained a good view of the surroundings of Villinstein; and in one way or another he and the other officers picked up a good deal of news which otherwise would not have reached the prison.
It was in this manner that word reached the officer prisoners at Villinstein that an American girl, who had entered Germany by way of Switzerland in an attempt to obtain military information, had been captured and had been taken to the schloss belonging to von Fallenbosch, near Mannheim, fifty miles away. It was not known whether she had been executed or whether she still was living; indeed, it was not known whether she had been tried yet; or whether she was to be tried; and her identity—except that she was an American girl—also was a mystery. That is, it was unknown to the prisoner who brought in the news and to the others to whom he told it; but it was not a mystery to Gerry. He knew that the girl was Ruth Alden—that she had gone on with her plan and been caught.
And the knowledge imbued him with furious dismay. He blamed himself as the cause of her being at the mercy of the enemy. He had seen no way past the dilemma which had confronted him in regard to her, except to make a negative report in regard to Ruth which—he had hoped—would both keep her free from trouble with the French authorities and prevent her gaining permission to leave France for Switzerland. He had learned, too late, that while he had accomplished the former end, he had failed in the latter. She had been allowed to proceed to Switzerland; then he was shot down and captured.
It had been impossible, therefore, for him to seek further information of her fate; but he had her in his mind almost constantly. When he was by himself, in such isolation as Villinstein afforded, his thoughts dwelt upon her. He liked to review, half dreamily as he sat in a corner of a casemate with a book, all his hours with her and recall—or imagine—how she looked that first time she had spoken to him. The days upon the Ribot had become, marvelously, days with her. Quite without his will—and certainly without his conscious intention—Agnes had less and less place in his recollections of the voyage. She was always there, of course; but his thought and his feelings did not of themselves restore to him hours with her. It was the same when he was talking over personal and home affairs with the men with whom he became best acquainted—with O’Malley and a Canadian captain named Lownes; when the Irishman spoke of the girl waiting for him and when Lownes—who was married—told of his wife, Gerry mentioned Ruth; and—yes—he boasted a bit of her.
“I thought,” O’Malley said to him later, “that you were engaged to an English girl, the daughter of an earl or such.”
Gerry colored a little. “We’ve been good friends; that’s all, Michael; never more than that. When we happened to go to America on the same boat, our papers over there tried to make more of it; and some of their stuff reached this side.”
This was true enough; but it left out of account the fact that, not long ago, Gerry had hoped himself some day to make “more of it”; and, later, he had not tried. Now, as he thought back he knew that Agnes had never loved him; and he had not loved her. This strange girl whom he had known at first as Cynthia, and then as Ruth Alden, had stirred in him not only doubts of the ideas by which he had lived; she had roused him to requirements of friendship—of love, let him admit it now—which he had not felt before. Their ride together away from Mirevaux, when he sat almost helpless and swaying at her side after she had saved his life, became to him the day of discovery of her and of himself. He could see her so clearly as her eyes blurred with tears when she told him about “1583;” and he knew that then he loved her. Their supper together at Compiègne became to him the happiest hour of his life. He had felt for her more strongly that evening of their last parting in the pension; but then the shadow of her great venture was over them.
Everything which happened somehow reminded him of her. When he was out of the prison during the walks on parole and he passed groups of German civilians and overheard their remarks about America, he thought of her. The Germans were perfectly able to understand why France fought, and why England fought, and why Russia had fought; but why had America come in? Why was America making her tremendous effort? What was she to gain? Nothing—nothing material, that was. The enemy simply could not understand it except by imputing to America motives and aims which Gerry knew were not true. Thus from experience with the enemy he was beginning to appreciate that feeling which Ruth had possessed and tried to explain to him—feeling of the true nobility of his country. So, as he went on his walks in Germany, he was proud that his uniform marked him as an American. Prouder—yes, prouder than he could have been under any other coat!
He had intended to tell her so; but now she was taken and in the hands of the Germans! They would execute her; perhaps already they had! From such terrors there was no relief but work—work in the tunnel, by which he must escape, and then save her, or die trying.