Convict B 14: A Novel

by R. K. Weekes

The song ceased. The ivy was lifted again.

"Englishman!" Pause. "Englishman, are you there? Do you hear me? If you will come out you shall have your life—I will not harm you!"

Private Blum had a mind to steal a march on his comrade. Getting no reply, he went head first into the hole on hands and knees, his rifle tucked under his arm. It was very dark and very wet, and disagreeable stories about underground rivers and bottomless abysses were running in his head. He paused. "Englishman!" he called again less confidently.

This time there was a reply; a shot came out of the dark. He seized his rifle and returned the compliment; then, feeling what seemed like the entire grotto tumbling about his ears, he backed out hurriedly. "Du lieber Gott!" he muttered, standing up in the sunshine and feeling himself all over to make sure he was not hurt, "but that is a dangerous one! I will leave him to the Herr Lieutenant—he will know how to settle him!"

The luck was all with the enemy. Dorothea lay weeping tears of rage over Denis's useless revolver. She had dropped it into the stream; she had never let one off before, she had no idea they kicked like that! And now what was she to do? If she could have disposed of Private Blum, as she had hoped, she might have got away; but she had not disposed of Private Blum. He was out there, very much alive, and in another minute Lieutenant Müller would join him; and if Lieutenant Müller saw her—

Till this minute Dorothea had never doubted of success. But now? Dead or alive, if she fell into German hands, it would be equally fatal; Denis would be worse off than if she had never interfered. He might even owe his death to her. "Oh, darling, darling!" Dorothea murmured, crushing her hands together, an agonizing stricture at her heart. "Oh, it isn't fair. Oh, God, let me save him! Oh, I must save him, I can't bear it if he dies through me, I can't, I can't, I can't. Oh, isn't there any, any way?"

Pieces of rock, loosened by the explosion, were still pattering down; one fell on her hand. She glanced round impatiently, and saw to her dismay that half the cave seemed ready to fall in; very little more would bring down an avalanche. She sprang to her feet—and stood still. She had seen how to save Denis.

So simple, after all! Why, of course it was what always happened, in the ordinary course of operations. So much neater, too, than if she had escaped. The search would come to an end, the roads would no longer be guarded, Denis would have a far better chance of getting off. And there would certainly be nothing left to identify. Oh, it was a topping idea! Perhaps if Denis crossed the frontier into Holland she might follow—no, she couldn't, though, she was forgetting; how queer! She would be dead.

Death. She was going to die, all alone here in the dark. She would never see the sunshine any more. She would never see Denis any more, never be his wife, never taste the happiness which niggard Fate, at long last, was offering her. It was the end. And while she was trying to subdue her aching, unsatisfied rebellion, to remind herself that she had only petitioned to be allowed to save him and should be thankful, in a flash of sunset light which illumined and interpreted the past, Dorothea saw that it was the only perfect end. She would have been his wife? Ah, but it would never have been the same, he would never have given her what he once gave; she had spoiled that. It would have been pity, amends, the second best. He would never, never love her living; no, but he would love her dead. For her sake he would go softly all his days; she was sure, now, of an unfading shrine in his memory. Yes, and even apart from Denis, little Dorothea was shyly proud. She was not giving her life for him alone; she was dying as a soldier for her country, and could claim the soldier's due of amnesty and an honored grave.

How far away the world had gone! and how dim and queer she felt! Was it her arm again? Those moments of waiting might have been very cruel, but, more lucky in her death than in her life, Dorothea was spared them. She did not hear Lieutenant Müller outside, nor his orders to the men. She had drifted far away, to happy hours at Bredon and her beloved aeroplane. It was evening; the solemn splendors of the sunset were all about her in the sky. She was flying through a sea of gold—of pure gold, like unto clear glass—or was it the glory of God?