“Not me!” retorted Maertz. “Here, papa!” he cried to Joos, “show this gentleman your paper. He can’t go about sticking people as he likes, even in war-time.”
Joos went forward. Moved by contemptuous curiosity, the two officers examined the miller’s laisser passer by the light of an electric torch.
The commissariat officer changed his tone when he saw the signature. The virtue of military obedience becomes a grovelling servitude in the German army, and a man who was ready to act with the utmost unfairness if left to his own instincts grew almost courteous at sight of the communications officer’s name. “Your case is different,” he admitted grudgingly. “Is this your party? The old man is Herr Schultz, I suppose. Which are you?”
“I’m Georges Lambert, Herr General.”
“And what do you want?”
“We’re all going to Andenne. It’s on the paper. This infernal fighting has smashed up our place at Aubel, and the women are footsore and frightened. So is papa. Put them in a wagon. Dampier and I can leg it.”
The Prussian was becoming more civil each moment. He realised, too, that this gruff fellow who moved about the country under such powerful protection was a veritable godsend to him and his tired men.
“No, no,” he cried, grown suddenly complaisant, “we can do better than that. I’ll dump a few trusses of hay, and put you all in the same wagon, which can then take the lead.”
Thus, by a mere turn of fortune’s wheel, the enemy was changed into a friend, and a dangerous road made safe and comfort-giving. Jan sat in front with the driver, and cracked jokes with him, while the others nestled into a load of sweet-smelling hay.
“For the first time in my life,” whispered Dalroy to Irene, “I understand the precise significance of Samson’s riddle about the honey extracted from the lion’s mouth. Our heavy-witted Jan has saved the situation. We enter Verviers in triumph, and reach the left of the German lines. Just another slice of luck, and we cross the Meuse at Andenne or elsewhere—it doesn’t matter where.”