Just then the sergeant caught sight of the troops who were blazing away at his party. With a succession of oaths he bade his men cease fire. Here was another blunder. The Germans were firing at each other.
At length the exchange of shots ceased. A Prussian officer, accompanied by half a dozen of his men, advanced to meet the prisoners and their escort. His face was purple with fury. For ten minutes he bullied and browbeat the luckless sergeant, whose men had not been responsible for opening fire. Then other officers—members of the staff—hurried up, and a hasty consultation followed.
Presently Colonel von Koenik tore up in his motorcar. He was accompanied by another staff-officer, Major von Manteuffel, whose name was presently to be execrated throughout the civilized world.
Von Manteuffel was in a high pitch of nervous excitement. Evidently he was trying to fix the blame upon the men escorting the Belgian prisoners, while von Koenik, cool and calculating, championed their cause.
Kenneth and Rollo watched the scene with well-concealed satisfaction. The mere fact that some small portion of the mechanism of the Mailed Fist had gone wrong elated them. It was an insight into the blustering methods of German military organization; but they had yet to learn that the Bullies of Europe had a drastic remedy for their errors, whereby the penalty fell upon the weak and helpless.
Von Koenik gave an order, the sergeant bundled Rollo and Kenneth into an isolated house situated about half a kilometre from the town. What befell the Belgian prisoners the lads never knew, but from the window in the upper room in which they were confined, the British youths could command a fairly-extensive view of Louvain and the road which approached it.
Two German soldiers were locked in the room, but they offered no objection when Kenneth and Rollo went to the window.
Above the tiled roofs of the houses, the ancient and venerable church of St. Pierre shot up like an island in the centre of a lake. Other buildings—churches, the Hôtel de Ville, and the university—were slightly less conspicuous, yet clearly discernible above the expanse of houses. Along the road were hundreds of grey-coated troops, while a small black patch in that long-drawn-out riband of silver-grey indicated the position of the way-worn band of Belgian prisoners, who were now almost within the limits of the town.
While the British lads were at the window, then German guards produced from their knapsacks some pieces of roll, sausages, and a bottle of wine. Soon the room was filled with the disagreeable sounds of Teutonic mastication, which, unless one has had the misfortune to hear it, cannot satisfactorily be described. Kenneth and Rollo, thanking their lucky stars that they were not compelled to witness the performance, remained at the window.
Suddenly, just as the town clocks were chiming the hour of six, a succession of shots rang out.