“Play your part now!” he commanded. “It’s the only way and it’s safe. It’s the order of the night’s work.”
They pushed through mobs of panic-stricken fleeing refugees and groups of drunken soldiers revelling in every excess. Again and again they passed brutes with captive girls as their prey. Some had them tied with cords. Others relied on a blow from their fists to insure obedience.
They waved their congratulations to Vassar and his captive as they passed.
They reached the outskirts of the town without accident and ran into the stream of horror-stricken humanity that was pouring now toward New York.
A great murmur of mingled anguish, rage and despair rolled heavenward. It seemed a part of the leaping flames and red billowing smoke of the burning city behind them.
Lost children were crying for their parents and trudging hopelessly on with the crowd.
A farmer with a horrible wound across his forehead was pushing a wheelbarrow bearing his mangled child. Beside the body sat a little three-year-old girl clutching a blood-smeared doll.
A big automobile came shrieking through this crowd of misery. Beside the chauffeur sat an officer in glittering uniform, behind two soldiers, their bayonets flashing in the glare of the conflagration. In the rear seat alone, in magnificent uniform with gold epaulets and cords, sat the Governor-General of the fallen nation.
Waldron saw Virginia with a look of surprise and rage and lifted his hand. The car stopped instantly. The guard sprang out and opened the door of the tonneau.
“Quick!” Virginia whispered. “He has seen me. He will recognize you—run for your life!”