The Yellow Dove

“Not tired yet?” he asked.

“No. I could go on forever.”

“Then listen. We are nearing the Thorwald. It is just beyond here, less than half a mile away.”

“The Thorwald?”

“It’s a favorite place of mine, known only to Lindberg and Udo, a cave high up in the rocks, safe as a church, unless Udo happens to hunt for us there.”

“And will he?”

“I hope not. At the foot of the crags this road runs. We must get there first. Can you run?”

“I’ll try.”

He gave her his hand again, and they settled into a jog trot. She was breathing fast in a moment, but she was game and did not falter, though her lungs seemed to be bursting. But as they neared the spot, Cyril slowed down to a walk again.

“At the foot of the glen there’s a dry bed of a stream full of rocks. There used to be a bridge here, but it was washed away. It’s an awkward spot, even for a good motor. I’m going to make it worse.”

He left her, dashing on ahead, while she followed, and when she reached the stream she saw him dragging one of the bridge timbers across the road. She wanted to help, but he told her to watch, until he got another and then another timber into place. And in another moment it was evident that the barricade was formidable enough to deter any machine from crossing. And there was no way to go around, for upon one side rose the crags and upon the other the gully fell away into a dark pit filled with rocks and tangled branches.

There was nothing for it now but to wait. And yet it seemed a desperate thing to do. Weary and blown as Doris was, it would have seemed better to have gone on and on—anything to put distance between Cyril and the death that surely awaited them back there. It seemed impossible that so long a time as this could have elapsed before the tell-tale rope of sheets should have been discovered. Already she was sure that Wentz and his men must be on the way in a machine or on horses, perhaps which would cover the distance they had traveled in less than a quarter of the time. She thought that she heard the sound of a machine in the distance and the voices of men. She pleaded with him to go on, but he only smiled at her.

“You must do what I say, Doris,” he said, and then paused, listening. “They’re coming,” he whispered.

She had heard the sound of a machine. “From which direction?” she gasped.

“There,” and he pointed across the gully.

“They’ll be here in a moment. Listen to me! Walk quickly to your right, across the road to that large stone. Stop!” She obeyed wonderingly. “Now cross the road again, using those rocks as stepping stones.” She did it, bewildered, pausing on a ledge of rocks that formed a part of the crag. “Now follow the line of the rocks into the bushes. Fifty feet from the road, hidden among the shrubbery, you’ll find a cleft in the rocks. Climb it and you’ll come out here,” and he pointed upward just above the road. “Wait for me there. I’ll come in a moment.”

And as she hesitated, he caught her by the elbows and shoved her along the ledge backwards. “Go! Do you hear? I’ll have no refusal.”

There was no denying the accent of command in his voice or the quick flash of his eye. Never until von Stromberg had badgered her today had a man spoken to her in this tone before. But she loved him for it, rejoiced in his strength—the primitive instinct of woman to obey.

When she had gone, Hammersley quickly crossed the stream and took a position behind a thick bush, listening to the exhaust of the approaching machine, but listening and looking, too, in the opposite direction for sounds of his pursuers. A searchlight made fantastic shapes among the leaves and long shadows suddenly shot out along the road.

Hammersley had drawn his automatic from his pocket and was fingering it coolly. He put his fingers over his eyes, so that the light would not mar his familiarity with the darkness. He did not know how many men opposed him and did not seem to care. The main thing now was to keep his eye undimmed and his hand steady. The machine came, slowed down and stopped while a guttural exclamation came from the driver. The searchlight focused downward into the rocks of the gully. Screening his eyes from its light with a hand, Hammersley peered out at the occupants of the car. There were two men—better than three, but not so good as one. The man at the wheel rose and got down just beside him, moving forward to remove the obstacles.

Hammersley wasted no time. He leveled his automatic at the broad back of the driver and his voice rang sharply in German:

“I have come here for the dispatches intended for Herr General von Stromberg. You will give them to me at once.”

The man who was just bending over toward the timber straightened quickly and turned, reaching for his holster, but the man in the seat of the car, who wore a military cap, was quicker, for there was a report, and a bullet sang close to Hammersley’s ear.

A stream of fire came from Hammersley’s automatic; three shots in quick succession, and the man in the car pitched forward in his seat and slid to the floor. And by the time the other man had drawn his pistol, Hammersley had leaped behind a tree and came out of some bushes beyond. The chauffeur fired, but not in Hammersley’s direction. The continuous glare of the light in their eyes had made their vision in the darkness uncertain.

“Do you surrender?” shouted Hammersley.

The German’s reply was to fire at him again and miss. He still stood in the reflection of the headlight, a bulky silhouette, which made too fair a mark, while Hammersley stood in the shadows of the bushes. Hammersley pitied him.

“Surrender!” he repeated.

The man was not a coward and rushed blindly toward the voice, shooting again, too close for comfort.

“Well, then–” Hammersley said, and fired again.

The man stumbled to his knees and then fell prone, his fingers clutching among the leaves. The whole incident had taken less than a minute, and a deathly silence seemed to fall, following the reverberations of the shots. Hammersley stood tensely, listening and peering along the road toward Blaufelden. There was a glow of light at a distance and he could now hear the sound of another machine. Von Stromberg had learned of his escape and with a perfect intuition was coming here directly and fast. The sound of the shots had been heard. There was no time to lose. Hammersley bent over the man on the ground and searched his pockets rapidly. Gloves, matches, a spark plug, tobacco, but no papers. The chauffeur, of course. By main strength he lifted the dead weight of the man in the car and carried him down into the glare of the searchlight. It was a dangerous thing to do, for the lights of the machine from Blaufelden were already swinging through the treetrunks. But he worked quickly and skillfully, tearing open the officer’s gray overcoat and searching his pockets. In the inside pocket of his uniform he found them, a bulky package, and other papers. He read the superscription quickly, “Sein Excellenz General Graf von Stromberg.” Then sprang aside out of the glare of the lights at the very moment when the other machine came swinging rapidly around the turn in the road.

“The papers are safe?” roared a voice which Hammersley recognized.

“Ja,” Hammersley replied in a rough tone. “A man tried to stop me and I shot him.”

“Ganz gut!”

“He is here,” shouted Hammersley again.

All the while he had been moving out of the glare of the searchlights, and as the men from the other car tumbled out and came forward, he turned into the darkness, and abandoning all caution, took to his heels and ran at top speed in the opposite direction.

Behind him he heard shouts as his trick was discovered, but he knew that in the matter of speed he had nothing to fear afoot from any German at Windenberg. The thing that bothered him now was a way to hide the marks of his footsteps, for in places the mud was soft and he knew that in the morning light they would follow him; so he picked his way carefully, running at top speed for a mile at least, to lead the pursuit away from the Thorwald and then at the banks of a small stream paused a moment and listened. He had eluded them. Then without hesitation, though puffing fearfully from his exertions, he stepped down into the cold waters of the stream and waded up it, avoiding the ledges and making sure that he left no mark behind him. As he climbed higher up the mountain, he could see in the distance the glow of the lights of the machines and when he reached a mossy bank which would not betray him, he clambered out of the water and turned, doubling like a fox, upon his trail, turning back in the general direction from which he had come.

Doris worried him. He could imagine her crouching there two hundred feet in the air just above the two machines, half dead with fear of capture and terror for him. Had she seen what had happened and understood it? Would she have the kind of silent endurance to crouch there and wait? He hurried on into the maze of rocks and deep woods, finding at last a deer trail that he knew. There were but two means of ingress to the cave of the Thorwald, one by the secret path in the bushes up the rocks which Doris had taken, the other from the upper side which he was now rapidly approaching.

He ran along the deer trail, reloading his automatic as he went, his eyes peering ahead for familiar landmarks, cutting in at last to the left at a great rock around which the deer trail led. He now proceeded with great caution. Far below him he could see the reflections of the lights of the two cars and heard the voices of men. He went down a way toward the wall of rocks, clambering over huge bowlders, hauling himself here and there by the aid of tree limbs, reaching at last the dry bed of the old stream which down in the road had been of such assistance to him.

Now the wall of rock rose sheer before him. He stole cautiously along its face, feeling with his hands and peering upward. In a moment he found what he was looking for, a small projecting ledge which he mounted, and followed to his right for a way, then mounting again by easy stages to a fissure wider than his body which he entered and followed quickly. It led downward it seemed into the bowels of the crag, but came out suddenly into an open space, a kind of amphitheater, with a ridge of rock upon one side, and upon the other what appeared to be a solid wall. He crossed this space quickly and peered over.

Below him the crag jutted out over the road and upon it somewhere was Doris. He strained his gaze downward but could not see her. What if they had found her footsteps and followed? No, that was hardly possible, for the ridge of rock began immediately at the road, and thanks to his precautions, she would leave no footprints.

Slowly he descended, choosing his footing with quick deliberation, for the slightest sound, the dislodging of a twig or a sliver of crumbled stone and the crag of the Thorwald would become in a moment a hornet’s nest. Fortunately the back of the rock screened him from the road, and unless von Stromberg had sent men into the woods to left and right, there was no chance of discovery. At last he reached the level and a dark shadow rose at his very feet and silently clasped his hand. He took her in his arms for a moment in devout thankfulness. If the true moment of their mating had been back there in the road while danger threatened them before and behind, this place of security was the beginning of its consummation. He did not speak and only motioned her to sit while he crouched beside her, waiting.

Below in the road he heard the rasping voice of His Excellenz, speaking in no gentle tones to the wounded chauffeur of the messenger’s machine, asking question after question which were answered feebly enough. After a while the men who had followed Hammersley returned and made their reports—the dull boom of the voice of Wentz and the harsh crackle of von Stromberg’s in rage and mortification.

“He got away, Excellenz,” said Wentz. “For a moment only I saw him, and followed fast as I could, but my legs are too short.”

“Bah! You are an imbecile, Herr Hauptmann. And the other men, are not their legs longer?”

“Yes, but Herr Hammersley has the legs of a deer. They are following, but it is like hunting for a grain of barley in a coal scuttle. He may have taken to the woods anywhere.”

“Ja—but the Fräulein. She could not have run as fast as he!”

“It is my opinion,” said Wentz with some temerity, “that they had a rendezvous somewhere beyond. He has known these mountains since his boyhood.”

“Esel! But she hasn’t, and how should she find it in the dark?”

“Perhaps, the matter being so important, he would have deserted her.”

“Quatsch! Find me the girl and I will find you Hammersley.”

Hammersley felt Doris’s clasp tighten on his own.

“She cannot have gotten far away. Search for her, schafskopf. Search the woods and rocks until morning. Take the other machine and follow his footsteps until you see them no more. Then follow his trail in the woods. Take the two Försters with you. I will go back to Blaufelden to send for more men and question the guards who permitted his escape. Go!”

The fugitives sat silently listening to the sounds below them, heard the orders to put the wounded man and the dead messenger into the machine and presently the commotion of departure as the machines were backed away from the gully, turned, in available spots, and then departed in opposite directions, General von Stromberg’s at full speed, the other slowly, while Captain Wentz walked on before, his shoulders bent, trying to follow the signs of Hammersley’s rubber soles in the road. But it had begun to rain steadily again and Hammersley was thankful, for it would not be long before all marks of his footsteps would be erased.

CHAPTER XIX

THE CAVE ON THE THORWALD

“Safe?” he heard her whisper.

“Yes, for the present.”

“You have what you came for?”

“I think so.”

“And what shall we do now?”

“Sleep. You’re dead beat. Come.”

He rose and helped her to her feet, then after another pause, turned toward the wall of rocks behind them.

“Do you think you can make it? It’s a difficult climb.”

“Yes. I’ve that much left in me. You lead the way and I’ll follow.” Her teeth were chattering.

As he touched her sleeve he found it soaked with moisture.

“Poor child. You’re nearly frozen.” He had not been conscious of the occasional spatter of rain, for his leather jacket had kept him dry. “But I’ll have you warm and snug before you can say knife.”

And when she questioned, “A fire–” he replied, “Isn’t that what one uses to get warm with?”

“But here—tonight–?”

“Oh, don’t bother. You’ll see.”

They were climbing up the face of the slippery rocks, Hammersley pausing from time to time to let her rest, pulling her from above when he reached the ledges, and at last they came out into the amphitheater of bowlders from which he had descended.

She was almost too weary for comment and followed blindly as he led her to the wall of the rock where he seemed to disappear in its very face. She followed him inside a dark opening and when they were well within he relinquished her hand and struck a match. A brief glimpse she had of a small chamber in the cliff not twenty feet square when the match went out. He struck another and shading it with his hand went forward. She saw him find what he was looking for and in a moment a candle, after faintly sputtering for a moment, sent forth a steady glow of light.

“Sit here on this stool. I’ll have you right in a jiffy.”

She obeyed him and looked around her. At one side was a bed of pine needles, at another a small table and in the middle of the rocky floor the gray embers of what had been a fire.

“A bit roughish, but not so bad?”

She nodded while he busied himself in building the fire. There were dry leaves, twigs and logs in the corner, and soon a blaze was leaping cheerfully upward. And while she wondered at the signs of occupancy he answered her thought.

“It’s Lindberg’s. He comes here often. It was here that he and I always slept when we went on hunting trips. You see there’s a natural chimney overhead in the rocks where the bally smoke goes out. They might observe the smoke by day, but at night we’re quite safe. I’ve been all around the place when the fire was goin’ and there isn’t a sign of it outside.”

He helped her put her coat off and made her comfortable close to the fire, after which he quickly took the package of papers out of his pocket and examined them. The single papers were military orders of no importance to one Lieutenant Orstmann, obviously the dead messenger. Hammersley put them aside, breaking the seal of the heavy envelope and examining its contents carefully. First a letter of instructions to His Excellency von Stromberg, signed in the bold hand of the Emperor of Germany himself. He showed her the signature and explained its contents and all thought of weariness went from her mind.

“It is—it’s what you came for?”

“Yes,” he replied, smiling grimly. “I’ve got it.”

“Is it—it isn’t so important that you can’t tell me?” she asked timidly.

He laughed, put his arm around her and held her for a moment tenderly. She had endured where a man might have flinched, and yet at this moment she was all woman—timid, weary unto death, but still curious. It was the master impulse.

“No,” he smiled. “You’ve jolly well earned the right to know. I’ll tell you.”

He was so big, so strong, so certain of himself that she wondered how, for a moment even, she could have thought him other than he was. With a sudden impulse of pride and tenderness, she rose, put her arms around his neck and bending his head down to hers kissed him upon the lips. He caught her to him and held her in his arms.

“O Cyril,” she murmured, “that I could ever have failed in my belief in you, that I could ever have thought that you were false! Why didn’t you tell me the truth? I would have kept your secret.”

“It was impossible, dear. It was too big a thing and I was sworn to silence. But since you found out–”

“Did you think me curious—” she asked naïvely, “because I read the cigarette papers?”

“Curious!” he laughed. “Well rather! The mistake I made was in tellin’ you not to read them. If I–”

“Don’t laugh at me,” she whispered. “I can’t stand that. The only retribution for what I did this afternoon is a blow. If you struck me, Cyril, I should not care.”

“But I won’t, you know, old girl. But I’m going to kiss you again if you don’t mind.”

And he did, while a shadow darkened her eyes. “It seems terrible to be happy, even in our moment of security, with the shadow of death hanging so closely over us. I know you had to kill him, Cyril, but–” She paused.

“It was either that or he would have killed me. As it was, it was too jolly close a thing for comfort. I gave the other man his chance, but he wouldn’t take it. Lucky he didn’t, for I might have missed the papers.”

She clung to him more closely.

“And if you had been killed?” she whispered. “I saw it all. At first I thought you had fallen. O Cyril, the agony of it! And then you came out from behind the tree and I knew that you were unharmed. I had seen a man die, as I had, there upon the rocks at Ben-a-Chielt, but when the other one came at you I wanted you to kill him. I wanted it. I prayed that you would. It was murder—in my heart. I can’t understand how I have changed. And I’ve always thought death such a fearsome thing!”

She hid her face in his shoulder and clung to him, trembling. She had passed through danger valiantly, carelessly even, but now that for the moment danger had passed, woman-like, she yielded to the reaction. He kissed her gently.

“Sh—child. Don’t let it work on you. No bally use. We’re safe now.”

“Yes—safe for the present. That ought to be enough for me. But if anything had happened to you—!” She shuddered.

“But it didn’t–”

“Oh, I’m thankful,” she whispered. “Thankful for that—and for you—the trouble I’ve passed through—the pain of my thoughts of you—I’m thankful for those too, because without them I never should have known you—the real you, Cyril. I sometimes think that life deals too easily with most of us to bring out the best that’s in us. I never would have known you in England, Cyril, doing the things you always did.”

He smiled at her.

“I’m the same chap, though. Can’t tell what a fellow will do when he has to.”

“But you didn’t have to. You might have gone to France and sat in a trench. Instead of that you did what was harder—let them distrust you—hold you in contempt—keeping silent and cheerful, while you were doing such splendid things for England.” She paused while she caressed him and said in a proud whisper, “The Honorable Cyril!”

“Honorable!” he smiled. “You’d hardly get von Stromberg to think that.”

“That terrible old man!” she went on clinging to him. “I can see his vulture face now. He would have shot you—tomorrow!”

“But we fooled him—what? Poor Lindberg!”

She questioned him and he told her of the devotion of his old friend.

“And what will von Stromberg do to Lindberg?” she asked anxiously.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Nothin’ perhaps, unless Udo tells.” He paused and looked into the fire. “Wish I knew about Udo,” he said thoughtfully. “We were very good pals last year.”

“But he wouldn’t see you shot!”

“He couldn’t do anythin’. I am betrayin’ his country.”

“But not your country, Cyril,” she said.

“No, thank God. Not mine. I love Germany—the Germany of my mother—and the men like Lindberg. But the Germany of von Stromberg—that’s not Germany to me.”

“Do you think we will get away?”

“Yes,” he said quickly.

She read the anxiety in his voice and knew that he was thinking of her, and in that moment a new idea of her duty came to her.

“You mean,” she said quickly, “that you could get away if it wasn’t for me. O Cyril, I know. Don’t try to deceive me. You could disguise yourself and get away to the Swiss border. It would not be difficult for you. I am a weight around your neck which may destroy you.”

“Hush, child.”

“No. I am not too stupid to see that. You ought to be going now.” She clung to his arms and looked up into his face as her duty came more clearly to her, while her voice trembled with earnestness. “I want you to go, Cyril. Your life is valuable to England. They are on a false scent down there. You could get away in the darkness and by morning you can be miles away. I’m not afraid. Tomorrow I can go and give myself up. I am only a girl—an American. They will not dare to harm me. Don’t smile. I am in deadly earnest. You must go, Cyril—now—now–”

But he only patted her gently.

“You think that I am a child,” she went on, “that I cannot be trusted to get along alone. Haven’t I proved it to you that I am not afraid? Look at me, Cyril. I am only a little tired now but tomorrow I will go to von Stromberg and say, ‘Here I am—now what can you do to me?’ He may threaten and bluster and rage, but that will not frighten me—when you are safe. What can he reply? What could he do? My nation is not at war with his. He would not dare! O Cyril, say that you’ll go—say that you’ll go–”

She looked up into his face and saw that its expression had not changed. He was still smiling at her softly while she felt the touch of his fingers gently petting her.

“Oh—you won’t go—you won’t!” she cried, and then without further warning burst into a passion of tears.

“Don’t, Doris, for God’s sake,” he whispered. “Don’t break now. I need all your courage and your strength. You’ve been so brave—so strong. Keep up your spirits, there’s a dear. We’ll pull through, don’t you worry.”

“They’ll take you—if you stay here.”

“No. They won’t find us. I’m not afraid of that, and there are water and biscuits here. We’ll take things easy for a while and then slip off. Do you think I could go and leave you in the lurch? Pretty sort of a Johnny I’d be to do a thing like that! Not for twenty Englands, Doris,” he whispered, kissing her tenderly. “Not for twenty Englands, I wouldn’t.” His touch soothed her and she grew more quiet.

“Of—of course you w-wouldn’t,” she murmured. “But I w-wish you would.”

Her hands met around his neck and he raised her chin and kissed her on the mouth. It was a kiss of plighted troth, of tenderness, faith and the exalted passion that comes with tears.