“I wouldn’t worry about that now,” she replied rather nervously. “I don’t think you realize how very ill you are.”
“I’m not ill—not out of my mind, at any rate. I want to know. Why should they carry bombs? Wait a bit. I’m all right now. My mind’s clear. You said the airship came down in flames and the brutes were killed. Tell me what it means.”
“Surely you’ve heard of the air raids? Read about them in the papers?”
“I see no newspapers,” said Baltazar. “Air raids? For God’s sake tell me what you mean?”
She glanced round to see that access to the door was clear. His aspect—his shaggy hair clotted with blood and dirt—his eyes gleaming from a haggard, grimed and bloody face—the filth of his half-nakedness—alone would have frightened a timorous woman. And his words were those of a madman. She giggled hysterically.
“I suppose you’ve heard there’s a European war on?”
He sat up. “War! What war?”
Mrs. Pillivant fled from the room. Baltazar rose to his feet.
War? War with Germany? Naturally Germany, because Zeppelins were German airships. A European war, the woman had said. His glance for the first time fell upon a newspaper on the dining-room table, open at the middle page. Forgetful of pain and exhaustion, he strode and seized it—and the headlines held him spellbound by their bewildering revelation.
Great Britain, France, Italy, Russia, Germany, Austria, Bulgaria . . . all Europe at war. The basic facts stood out in great capital letters.