g them up, much as a
detective might scan the features of a pair of half-recognised criminals
to whom he could not altogether allot their proper places in the Rogues'
Gallery.

"You see, she's ill," urged Dalroy. "Mayn't we go? My aunt keeps a
decent cellar. I'll come back with some good wine."

Never relaxing that glowering scrutiny, the corporal shouted suddenly,
"Come here, Georg!"

The man thus hailed by name strode forward. With him came three others,
Irene's fluent German and the parade attitude assumed by Franz having
aroused their curiosity.

"You used to have a good memory for descriptions of 'wanteds,' Georg.
Can you recall the names and appearance of the English captain and the
girl there was such a fuss about at Argenteau a month ago?"

Georg, a strongly-built, rather jovial-looking Hanoverian, grinned.

"Better than leaving things to guess-work, I have it in my pocket," he
said. "I copied it at the _Kommandantur_. A thousand marks are worth a
pencilled note, my boy. Halves, if these are they!"

Dalroy knew then that he, and possibly Irene, were doomed. A struggle
was impossible. Franz's reference to Oosterzeele being in German
occupation forbade the least hope of succour by a Belgian force. There
was a hundred to one chance that Irene's life might be spared, and he
resolved to take it. It was pitiful to feel the girl trembling, and he
gave her arm an encouraging squeeze.

Georg was fumbling in the breast of his tunic, when he seemed to realise
that it was raining heavily.

"Why the devil stand out here if we're going to hold a court of
inquiry?" he cried. Evidently, the iron discipline of the German army
was somewhat relaxed in the Death's-Head Hussars.

"Go to the barn," commanded Franz. "And, mind, you pig of an Englishman,
no talking till you're spoken to!"

Dalroy wondered why the man allowed him to assist Irene; but such
passing thoughts were as straws in a whirlwind. He bent his wits to the
one problem. He was lost. Could he save her? Heaven alone would decide.
A poor mortal might only pray for guidance as to the right course.

Inside the tumbledown barn the light was bad, so the prisoners were
halted in the doorway, and a score of troopers gathered around. They
were not, on the whole, a ruffianly set. Every man bore the stamp of a
trained soldier; the device of a skull and cross-bones worked in white
braid on their hussar caps gave them an imposing and martial aspect.

"Here you are!"