It was a serious prayer and he felt that it was without a trace of wickedness or sacrilege. Evidently von Arnheim was giving orders of importance, as two of the men, to whom he was talking, hurried to horses, mounted and galloped down the road. Then the young prince walked slowly back to the house and John could see that he was very thoughtful. He passed his hand in a troubled way two or three times across his forehead. Perhaps the medieval prince inside was putting upon the modern prince outside labors that he was far from liking.
John's unformed plan of escape included Julie Lannes. He could not go away without her. If he did he could never face Lannes again, and what was more, he could never face himself. It was in reality this thought that made his resolve to escape seem so difficult. It had been lurking continuously in the back of his head. To go away without Julie was impossible. Under ordinary circumstances her situation as a prisoner would not be alarming. Germans regarded women with respect. They had done so from the earliest times, as he had learned from the painful study of Tacitus. Von Arnheim had received a deep impression from Julie's beauty and grace. John could tell it by his looks, but those looks were honest. They came from the eyes and heart of one who could do no wrong. But the other! The man of the Middle Ages, the older prince. He was different. War re-created ancient passions and gave to them opportunities. No, he could not think of leaving without Julie!
He kept his place at the tall, narrow window, and the night was steadily growing brighter. A full, silver moon was swinging high in the heavens. The stars were out in myriads in that sky of dusky, infinite blue, and danced regardless of the tiny planet, Earth, shaken by battle. From the hills came the relentless groaning which he knew was the sound of the guns, fighting one another under the searchlights.
Then he heard the clatter of hoofs, and another company of Uhlans rode up to the château. Their leader dismounted and entered the great gate. John recognized von Boehlen, who had taken off his helmet to let the cool air blow upon his close-cropped head. He stood on the graveled walk for a few minutes directly in a flood of silver rays, every feature showing clearly. He had been arrogant and domineering, but John liked him far better than Auersperg. His cruelty would be the cruelty of battle, and there might be a streak of sentimentalism hidden under the stiff and harsh German manner, like a vein of gold in rock. As von Boehlen resumed his approach to the house he passed from John's range of vision, and then the prisoner watched the horizon for anything that he might see. Twice he beheld the far flare of searchlights, but nobody else came to the château, and the night darkened somewhat. No rattle of arms or stamp of hoofs came from the hussars in the grounds, and he judged that all but the sentinels slept. Nor was there any sound of movement in the house, and in the peaceful silence he at last began to feel sleepy. The problems of his position were too great for him to solve—at least for the present—and lying down on the cot he was fast asleep before he knew it.
Youth does not always sleep soundly, and the tension of John's nerves continued long after he lapsed into unconsciousness. That, perhaps, was the reason why he awoke at once when the heavy key began to turn again in the lock. He sat up on the cot—he had not undressed—and his hand instinctively slipped to his belt, where there was no weapon.
The key was certainly turning in the lock, and then the door was opening! A shadow appeared in the space between door and wall, and John's first feeling was of apprehension. An atmosphere of suspicion had been created about him and he considered his life in much more danger there than it had been when he was first a prisoner.
The door closed again quickly and softly, but somebody was inside the room, somebody who had a light, feline step, and John felt the prickling of the hair at the back of his neck. He longed for a weapon, something better than only his two hands, but he was reassured when the intruder, speaking French, called in a whisper:
"Are you awake, Mr. Scott?"
It was surely not the voice and words of one who had come to do murder, and John felt a thrill of recognition.
"Weber!" he exclaimed.