The hussar stood as though he, and not Dalroy, had been silenced by a bullet. He listened to the girl’s outburst with an expression of blank amazement, which soon gave place to a sinister smile.
“Gnädiges Fräulein,” he answered, springing to “attention,” and affecting a conscience-stricken tone, “I cry your pardon. But is it not your own fault? Why should such a charming young lady masquerade as a Belgian peasant?”
On hearing the man speak as a well-educated Berliner, Irene became deathly white under the tan and grime of so many days and nights of exposure. She nearly fainted, and might have fallen had not Dalroy caught her. Even then, when their position was all but hopeless, he made one last attempt to throw dust in the crafty eyes which were now piercing both Irene and himself with the baneful glare of a tiger about to spring.
“My cousin has been a governess in Berlin,” he said deferentially. “She isn’t afraid of soldiers as a rule, but you have nearly frightened her to death.”
Their captor still examined them in a way that chilled even the Englishman’s dauntless heart. He was summing them up, much as a detective might scan the features of a pair of half-recognised criminals to whom he could not altogether allot their proper places in the Rogues’ Gallery.
“You see, she’s ill,” urged Dalroy. “Mayn’t we go? My aunt keeps a decent cellar. I’ll come back with some good wine.”
Never relaxing that glowering scrutiny, the corporal shouted suddenly, “Come here, Georg!”
The man thus hailed by name strode forward. With him came three others, Irene’s fluent German and the parade attitude assumed by Franz having aroused their curiosity.
“You used to have a good memory for descriptions of ‘wanteds,’ Georg. Can you recall the names and appearance of the English captain and the girl there was such a fuss about at Argenteau a month ago?”
Georg, a strongly-built, rather jovial-looking Hanoverian, grinned.