'I say, you fellows,' said one of the Germans to his companions, 'what do you say? Our life here is one prolonged hell,—what is the use of it? Our officers tell us to hold on, hold on. And why should we hold on? Just to become fodder for cannon? I had four brothers, and every one of them is killed. Who's to look after my mother, if I am dead?'
Three minutes later he had accomplished the impossible. He was leading the way out of the dug-out towards the open. Sergeant Smith and I went with him like men in a dream.
When we came out in the open air, the night had again fallen. More than twelve hours had elapsed since I had been taken prisoner; most likely I had been unconscious a great part of the time. I did not know where we were going. The guns were still booming, while the heavens were every now and then illuminated as if by some tremendous fireworks.
'Sergeant,' I whispered, 'the man's a magician.'
'Never heard of such a thing in my life, sir. I'm like a man dreaming. Who is he? He's got a Tommy's togs on, but he might be a field marshal.'
All this time I had not once caught sight of our deliverer's face, but the tones of his voice still haunted me like some half-forgotten dream. I had almost forgotten the wonder of our freedom in the excitement wrought by the way it was given to us.
When at length we entered the British trenches, and the German prisoners had been taken care of, I saw the face of the man who had wrought the miracle, and I recognized him as the stranger whom I had met at Plymouth Harbour many months before, and who had adopted the name of Paul Edgecumbe.[1]
[1] The incident related above is not an invention on the part of the author. It was told me by a British officer, and it took place as nearly as possible as I have described it.