Pardieu! he did. He rendered the battalion an invaluable service that eventide.
The instant I realized the red-trousered signaller's meaning I guessed that something out of the common must be taking place within the castle. With my sergeant and four men, revolver in hand, I bounded at the double ahead of the platoon and threw myself against the entrance door. It crashed open, and I tumbled against six feet of grey-coated "Kultur."
Blood and fury! My left hand flew at his throat, clutched it, and gave it a violent twist, while my right tried to level the shooting-iron between his eyes. They met mine, and something in them made me shout in German, "Do you surrender?" He seemed to hesitate for the fraction of a second; then he gasped in pure French, "That was my intention." I relaxed my hold, and he added, calmly, "La guerre est une chose effroyable. Je me constitue prisonnier."
Very civil, I am sure. I felt I ought to bow, for classical language like this knocks a fellow a couple of centuries back. It knocked every glimmer of passion out of me. I recovered self-possession in a jiffy and—to make amends for whatever bad form there might have been in my recent exhibition of excitement—turned round majestically and surveyed the situation with lordly composure.
Jove!
In the huge yard were some three hundred Huns. The sight gave me a start, but I showed no emotion. Why didn't they shoot, though? They looked puzzled.
"I ask for the lives of my men," said the well-bred voice behind me. The tall jackanapes, it appeared, was their Hauptmann (Captain). Was he, then, surrendering the lot as well as himself?
I couldn't believe it, but I acted as if it was a matter of course.
"Granted," I growled, without turning a hair, "but arms down and hands up!"
"Ground arms!" bawled the German's voice. Scarcely had the command rung out when, like clockwork, forward bent three hundred automatons, down went three hundred rifles, and up again to attention stood three hundred disarmed boobies.