“Yes,” answered Desiree, behind her fingers.
“‘If Mademoiselle will come,’ he
said to me, ’bring her to this place!’
‘Yes, mon capitaine,’ answered I.
‘At any cost, Barlasch?’ ‘At any
cost, mon capitaine.’ And we are not men
to break our words. I will take you there—at
any cost, mademoiselle. And he will meet you
there—at any cost.”
And Barlasch expectorated emphatically into the fire,
after the manner of low-born men.
“What a pity,” he added reflectively,
“that he is only an Englishman.”
“When are we to go?” asked Desiree, still
behind her barrier of clasped fingers.
“To-morrow night, after midnight. We have
arranged it all—the Captain and I—at
the outpost nearest to the river. He has influence.
He has rendered services to the Russians, and the
Russian commander will make a night attack on the outpost.
In the confusion we get through. We arranged
it together. He pays me well. It is a
bargain, and I am to have my money. We shook
hands on it, and those who saw us must have thought
that I was buying fish. I, who have no money—and
he, who had no fish.”
And I have laboured
somewhat in my time
And not been paid profusely.
When Desiree came down the next morning, she found
Barlasch talking to himself and laughing as he prepared
his breakfast.
He met her with a gay salutation, and seemed unable
to control his hilarity.
“It is,” he explained, “because
to-night we shall be under fire. We shall be
in danger. It makes me afraid, and I laugh.
I cannot help it. When I am afraid, I laugh.”
He bustled about the room, and Desiree saw that he
had already opened his secret store beneath the floor,
to take from it such delicacies as remained.
“You slept?” he asked sharply. “Yes,
I can see you did. That is good, for to-night
we shall be awake. And now you must eat.”
For Barlasch was a materialist. He had fought
death in one form or another all his life, and he
knew that those who eat and sleep are better equipped
for the battle than those who cherish high ideals or
think great thoughts.
“It is a good thing,” he said, looking
at her, “that you are so slim. In a military
coat—if you put on that short dress in which
you skate, and your high boots—you will
look like a soldier. It is a good thing that
it is winter, for you can wear the hood of your military
coat over your head, as they all do out in the trenches
to keep their ears from falling. So you need
not cut off your hair— all that golden
hair. Name of thunder, that would be a pity,
would it not?”
He turned to the fire and stirred his coffee reflectively.
“In my own country,” he said, “a
long time ago, there was a girl who had hair like
yours. That is why we are friends, perhaps.”
