Chapter Eleven.
Beck’s Prophecy.
“Hark!” gasped Ella, turning to me, pale in alarm. “What is that man crying? Listen!”
Again the hoarse voice broke the silence, dear, distinct, ominous,—
“War against England! Spe-shall!” his cry being followed by the sound of hurrying feet as people rushed from their houses, purchased copies of the paper at exorbitant prices, and eagerly devoured the amazing news.
“Surely it must be some absurd story that the papers have got hold of,” Ella exclaimed a few moments later, when, after again watching the excitement below, she returned and stood beside my chair. “The idea of war against us is absolutely absurd. You Foreign Office people would have known if such were actually the case. Evening papers are so often full of exaggerated reports, contradicted next morning, that one ceases to believe in them.”
“I have every reason, unfortunately, to believe in the truth of this sudden probability of war,” I answered gloomily, scarce knowing what I said.
“You believe it’s true!” she cried. “How do you know? Will Russia actually dare to challenge us?”
“Yes,” I replied. “But how were you aware that Russia was our enemy?”
She started and held her breath. Her attitude was that of one who had unconsciously betrayed herself.