d’Armes — how they placed our poor, innocent townspeople against the wall — ranging them in rows, under pretence that the German Colonel was to address them. A miserable spy, who spoke Walloon as fluently as I do myself, shouted that Colonel Beeger wished to speak to them, and to urge them to bow to the inevitable, and become German subjects. They were all attention, ready to listen, and little dreaming the awful fate in store for them. They never foresaw the German treachery until a little grey machine-gun at the corner, with the four men behind it, suddenly rattled out, and in a few moments the whole of them were wallowing in their own life-blood. Ah! it was fearful, cruel, inhuman — ghastly! And this is in our civilised age!”
“Pierre,” exclaimed the good-natured old fellow softly, so that the women in that dank Dantesque vault should not overhear. “Our God is the God of justice and of righteousness. These murderers may wreck and desecrate our churches; they may kill our dear devoted priests; they may ridicule our religion, yet the great God who watches over us will, most assuredly, grind in His mill the arrogant nation that has sought to crush the world beneath Prussian despotism. We may die to-day in our good cause, but the Kaiser to-morrow will be hurled down and die accursed by humanity, and damned to hell by his Creator!”
“True, our poor people are falling beneath German bullets — though they have committed no offence against the German nation — yet what can you do here? You seem to be caught in a trap. What shall you do with these women?”
“Heaven knows?” gasped the honest old fellow. “What can I do? What do you suggest?” and he wrung his hands.
At that moment a white-haired old man, nearly eighty years of age, staggered down the broken steps, shrieking:
“Ah! Let me die! Let me die! The brutes are shooting men and boys in the Place, and now the soldiers are here — to kill us all!”
A terrible panic ensued at those significant words. The women huddled together, shrieked and screamed, for there, sure enough, came down the stone steps a grey-coated German soldier in spiked canvas-covered helmet, shouting roughly some command in German, and carrying his gleaming bayonet fixed before him.
“You women must all come up out of here!” cried a stern voice in bad French, as several other soldiers followed the first who had descended, until a dozen stood in the cellar.
The poor frightened creatures shrieked, wailed, and prayed for protection.
But the brutal soldiers, led by a swaggering young lieutenant of the Brandenburg infantry, were obdurate and commenced to roughly ill-treat the women, and cuff them towards the steps.
Uncle François raised his voice in loud protest, but next second a shot rang sharply out, and he fell dead upon the stones, a bullet through his heart, while the brute who had shot him roughly kicked his body aside with a German oath.
Such an action cowed them all.
A silence fell — the grim, terrible silence of those caught in a death-trap, for the women were now held by the enemy, and they knew, alas! too well, what their fate would now be — either dishonour or death.
Chapter Fifteen
Betrays the Traitor
The few moments that followed were indeed full of grim horror.
An old peasant woman, standing by Aimée, in her frenzy, spat at one of the German soldiers, whereupon he struck her in the breast with his bayonet, and, with a piercing shriek, the poor thing fell, her thin, bony hands clutching at the stones in her death agony.
“Come! no loitering!” shouted the young officer brutally, in French. “We must have you cellar-rats out above ground.” Then, catching sight of Aimée, he approached her, and spoke some words in German. She knew the language well, but did not reply, pretending that she did not understand.
At that moment there was a struggle on the stone stairway, which was narrow and winding, and his attention became diverted from her, whereupon the big, grey-coated infantryman, who had shot poor Uncle François, strode up to her and leered in her face.
She turned her head.
He placed his heavy hand upon her shoulder, saying, in his bad French:
“My girl, you are young and very pretty — to be sure?”
And then she saw, by his flushed face and bright eyes, that he had been drinking. The Germans drank up whatever they could loot — spirits, wine, beer, liqueurs, aperitifs — all the contents of the cafés.
The girl, though defenceless, drew herself up quickly, and replied in German, with the words:
“I see no reason why you should insult me?”
“Insult!” he laughed roughly. “Ah, you will see. We shall teach you rats, who live down here in holes, a lesson. Get along — and quickly.”
And he prodded her with his bayonet towards where the others, driven like sheep, were stumbling up the dark, slippery steps of the ancient vault.
She went forward without a murmur. The fate of the others was to be hers also.
Where was Edmond? If he were there he would certainly teach those brutes a severe lesson. But alas! he was not there. The Belgians had been driven out, and they, weak and defenceless, were held by a fierce relentless set of savages. The whole world was now learning the vanity of attempting to distinguish between the Germany of “culture” and the panoplied brutality of Prussian arrogance.
With the others, Aimée had ascended the steps and had gained the big ancient kitchen of the inn.
A number of the elder women had been pushed forward out into the street, where some screamed in sudden madness at seeing the bodies of men lying in the roadway. But Aimée, with half a dozen or so of the younger women, were detained by the officer, who had just given a sharp order to his men.
Suddenly the young elegant in command went outside, leaving the women to suffer the indignities of a dozen or so soldiers left to guard them. The big infantryman again approached Aimée, but the would speak no further word.
Suddenly, in the doorway, there appeared the figure of a major, at whose word the men quickly drew up to attention.
Aimée looked at him, scarce believing her own eyes.
Was she dreaming?
She stood staring at him. Though his uniform was strange, his face was only too familiar.
It was Arnaud Rigaux.
“M’sieur Rigaux! You!” she gasped. “You — a German!”
“Yes, Mademoiselle,” he laughed. “I have been searching everywhere for you. It is indeed fortunate that I am here in time. This, surely, is no place for you.”
“Searching for me?” she echoed. “How did you know I was here — in Dinant? And, tell me — why are you, a Belgian — wearing the Prussian uniform?”
Truly the meeting was a dramatic one.
He
