"Only I am left!" he cried. "Only I! They are all dead—dead—out there. They were meant to be dead. They were dead men before we attacked—all dead men running on—I could see it in their faces—only I was alive! And now they are still crawling—crawling—dead men!" His tone emphasised the horror of his words, struck a chill. A sentry lowered his rifle, irresolutely.
The maniac turned, waved a hand to the westward. The sun, on the point of setting, showed itself in a rift of the threatening snow clouds, sank, a great ball of glowing fire, over the rim of the plateau. Its last rays were lurid on the face of the madman, as he stood, arm outstretched, his eyes flaming, his tangled beard falling upon his rags, like some antique prophet of the wilderness.
"Woe! woe!" he shrieked. "Nach Verdun! Nach Verdun—Verdunkelung!"[17] He finished in a scream of maniac laughter, glorying in the crazy assonance of the words. "Nach Verdun—Verdunkelung!"
The neutral and the Oberst hurried through the woods to their horses.
A rapid ride with the German always in front, and once more they ascended the Twin of Ornes. As they arrived at the summit they found themselves among wildly cheering men. "Douaumont! Douaumont is taken!" Far away to the south-south-west, rocket after rocket shot up into the darkening sky. Already the great news had gone—electrical—to Berlin.
The crowd of dignitaries descended the steep path in the gloom to where the motor-cars were ranked in waiting. Along the road passed streams of wounded who could walk, phantoms half-distinguished in the dim light. Joyous were the voices of the War-Lords. One, a familiar tone, chanted: "Nach Verdun! Nach Verdun—Paris!"[18]
Out of the darkness came a screamed reply, a burst of insane laughter.
"Nach Verdun—Verdunkelung! Nach Verdun—Verdunkelung!"
It was the voice of the crazed Brandenburger. There was a scuffle, the sound of a man hurried away, resisting.