The soldier nodded.
"Ja, ja," he said, "if Russia will help," he spread out his hand, "that will be entirely another affair. But who knows? That little Emperor of the French may twist any number of Czars round his finger, but hark!" He listened eagerly. "What was that? A child?"
There was a sound as of a baby wailing wretchedly. Hans looked uneasy. Could it be that his Anna—but, no—he had sent her word, and certainly she had obeyed him. It was only some peasant with her baby. Presently they left the wood and before them stood the little grey Forest House with its red roof and garden.
Hans started and called out an exclamation. Pine needles were scattered everywhere as if feet, running, had disturbed the forest carpet. The garden gate stood open. A rosebush, broken, had fallen across the path. On the path, too, were dark drops which made both men shudder. The chickens, not yet freed from their night quarters, clucked impatiently, unmilked cows bellowed in pain, and Schneider and Schnip, the dogs, howled long and mournfully. And yet, in spite of the noise, the place seemed wrapped in a quiet most horrible.
"Mein Gott!" The soldier looked at Hans, who, gazing steadily before him, pushed open the unlatched door of the hall.
A cold little nose touched his hand as he entered. It was "Little Brother," Bettina's pet fawn, whose eyes seemed to speak most mournfully.
The hall was that of a Forest House, its walls ornamented with antlers of deer, guns and sticks on the racks, and, in the corner against one wall, a highly carved oak press, and, opposite, Frau Weyland's spinning wheel. But Hans and the soldier took no note of furniture, for a stream, a dark stream, was flowing from one door to the other, its source being the living room.
"Gott im Himmel!" cried the soldier. "It is blood!" Then he pushed open the door, Hans and the little fawn following.
There was the room as Hans knew it, with its sofa, its square table, its geraniums in the windows, its tall white porcelain stove, and its one picture of the Herr Jesus blessing the children.
A candle, smoking dismally about the socket, filled the room with a horrid odour. On the table stood the remains of supper, half eaten. But the two men looked at none of these things, nor took note of the little quivering fawn, whose eyes seemed to long to explain the whole story.