“If she’s anything like you, you’re welcome to her; but let’s have a look at your cousin,” grinned the German, striding forward, carbine in hand, and grasping Irene by the shoulder.
“You stop here, Fräulein—or, is it Frau?” he said, with a vilely suggestive leer. “Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. If one of these pig-heads is your husband we can soon make you a widow.”
Now to Irene every German soldier was a boor, with a boor’s vices and limitations. The man, a corporal, spoke and acted coarsely, using the argot of the barrack-room, and she was far too frightened to see in his satyr-like features a certain intellectuality. So, in her distress, she blundered twice.
“Leave me alone!” she said shrilly, trying in voice and manner to copy Léontine Joos.
“Now don’t be coy, pretty one,” chuckled the trooper, beginning to urge her forcibly in the direction of the barn.
Dalroy and Jan Maertz had remained stock-still when the hussar came up. Suddenly the Belgian sheered off, and ran like a hare into the dense wood surrounding the small cleared space in which stood the barn. The building had evidently been meant to house stock only. There was no dwelling attached. It had served, too, as a rallying-point during some recent scrimmage. The outer walls were chipped with bullets; the doors had been torn off and burnt; it was typical of Belgium under German rule—a husk given fictitious life by the conqueror’s horses and men.
Irene had seen Jan make off, while Dalroy lurched slowly nearer. She could not hear the fierce whisper which bade their sturdy ally bolt for the trees, and, if he got away, implore a strong Belgian patrol to come to the rescue. But she knew that some daring expedient had been devised on the spur of the moment, and gathered all her resources for an effort to gain time.
The corporal heard Jan break into a run. Letting go the girl, he swung on his heel and raised the carbine.
Dalroy had foreseen that this might happen. With a calm courage that was superb because of its apparent lack of thought, he had placed himself in the direct line of fire. Standing with his hands in his pockets and laughing loudly, he first glanced over his shoulder at the vanishing Maertz, and then guffawed into the hussar’s face.