The officers looked curiously at the shrine of Our Lady of Lesse, and the sad-faced Virgin looked back at them out of her carven and sightless eyes.
One by one the officers took posts at the four corners of the grassy clearing or on the steps of the shrine. They were laughing and conversing; some smoked; some inspected the rifles brought up by their non-com gun-bearers. The sun had not yet risen; the silvery smoke of the Silverwiltz marked its high waterfall below the gorge of the glen; fern fronds drooped wet to the wet dead leaves beneath, matted grasses glistened powdered with dew.
In the still grey air of morning the smoke from the German officers' pipes and cigars rose upward in straight thin bands; a jeweled bracelet on the wrist of an infantry major reflected light like a frost crystal.
The officers ceased their careless conversation; one by one they became quiet, almost motionless where they had taken their several positions. Behind them, stiff and erect, the non-coms stood with the spare guns, rifles or fowling-pieces.
An air of silent expectancy settled over the carrefour; officer and non-com were waiting for something.
Michaud had already divined; Guild knew; so did Darrel. Every woodsman in The Pulpit knew. Some of them were trembling like leashed dogs.
Then in the forest a sound became audible like a far halloo. Distant answers came through the woodland silence, from north, from south—then from west and east.
Guild whispered to Darrel: "They are driving the forest! They have a regiment out to beat it!"
The German officers at their stands no longer moved as much as a finger. Against the grey trees they were all but invisible.
Suddenly out into the carrefour stepped a superb red stag, ears alert, beautiful head half turned at gaze. Instantly a rifle spoke; and the magnificent creature was down in the ride, scuffling, scrambling, only to fall and lie panting with its long neck lifted a little.