Somehow, Dalroy sensed the actual text of the message. Von Emmich was making the humiliating admission that Liège, far from having fallen, as he had announced during the first hours of the advance, was still an immovable barrier against a living torrent of men. So the heart of this middle-aged warrior, whose repute was good when measured by the Prussian standard, had not melted because of the misery and desolation he and his armed ruffians had brought into one of the most peaceful, industrious, and law-abiding communities in the world. His tears flowed because of failure, not of regret. His withers were wrung by mortification, not pity. He would have waded knee-deep in the blood of Belgium if only he could have gained his ends and substantiated by literal fact that first vainglorious telegram to the War Lord of Potsdam. Now he had to ask for time, reinforcements, siege guns, while the clock ticked inexorably, and England, France, and Russia were mobilising. Perhaps it was in that hour that his morbid thoughts first turned to a suicide’s death as the only reparation for what he conceived to be a personal blunder. Yet his generalship was marked by no grave strategical fault. If aught erred, it was the German State machine, which counted only on mankind having a body and a brain, but denied it a soul.
Von Emmich’s troubles were no concern of Dalroy’s, save in their reaction on his own difficulties. He was conscious of a certain surprise that Irene Beresford should recognise one of the leaders of modern Germany so promptly; but this feeling, in its turn, yielded to the vital things of the moment. “Let us be moving,” he said quietly, and led the way with Joos.
“Why did you give Andenne as your destination?” he inquired.
“My wife’s cousin lives there, monsieur. She is married to a man named Alphonse Stauwaert. I had to say something. I remembered Madame Stauwaert in the nick of time.”
“But Andenne lies beyond Liège. To get there we shall have to traverse the whole German line, and pass some of the outlying forts, which is impossible.”
“We must go somewhere.”
“True. But why not make for a place that is attainable? Heaven—or Purgatory, at any rate—is far more easily reached to-night than Andenne.”
“I didn’t say we were going there at once,” snapped the miller. “It’s more than twenty-five kilomètres from here, and is far enough away to be safe when I’m asked where I am bound for. My wife couldn’t walk it to-morrow, let alone to-night.”
“Andenne lies down the valley of the Meuse too, doesn’t it?”
“Ay.”