against a living torrent of men. So the heart of this
middle-aged warrior, whose repute was good when measured by the Prussian
standard, had not melted because of the misery and desolation he and his
armed ruffians had brought into one of the most peaceful, industrious,
and law-abiding communities in the world. His tears flowed because of
failure, not of regret. His withers were wrung by mortification, not
pity. He would have waded knee-deep in the blood of Belgium if only he
could have gained his ends and substantiated by literal fact that first
vainglorious telegram to the War Lord of Potsdam. Now he had to ask for
time, reinforcements, siege guns, while the clock ticked inexorably, and
England, France, and Russia were mobilising. Perhaps it was in that hour
that his morbid thoughts first turned to a suicide's death as the only
reparation for what he conceived to be a personal blunder. Yet his
generalship was marked by no grave strategical fault. If aught erred, it
was the German State machine, which counted only on mankind having a
body and a brain, but denied it a soul.

Von Emmich's troubles were no concern of Dalroy's, save in their
reaction on his own difficulties. He was conscious of a certain surprise
that Irene Beresford should recognise one of the leaders of modern
Germany so promptly; but this feeling, in its turn, yielded to the vital
things of the moment. "Let us be moving," he said quietly, and led the
way with Joos.

"Why did you give Andenne as your destination?" he inquired.

"My wife's cousin lives there, monsieur. She is married to a man named
Alphonse Stauwaert. I _had_ to say something. I remembered Madame
Stauwaert in the nick of time."

"But Andenne lies beyond Liege. To get there we shall have to traverse
the whole German line, and pass some of the outlying forts, which is
impossible."

"We must go somewhere."

"True. But why not make for a place that is attainable? Heaven--or
Purgatory, at any rate--is far more easily reached to-night than
Andenne."

"I didn't say we were going there at once," snapped the miller. "It's
more than twenty-five kilometres from here, and is far enough away to be
safe when I'm asked where I am bound for. My wife couldn't walk it
to-morrow, let alone to-night."

"Andenne lies down the valley of the Meuse too, doesn't it?"

"Ay."

"Well, isn't that simply falling off a rock into a whirlpool? The
Germans must pass that way to France, and it is France they a