for all the colonels and generals in the world."
"I regret what I did," Donop said sadly. "Here we sit, the five of us, with nothing left to us of that time save disgust, jealousy and hatred."
He put his head in his hands, and the wine in him proceeded to philosophize.
"Right and wrong, comrades, are an ill-matched team. Each has a different gait, but there are times when I seem to discern the hand that holds them both on the rein and ploughs the world's tilth. What name should I give it, the mysterious force that has made us all so wretched and foolish? Should I call it fate, or chance, or the everlasting law of the stars?"
"We Spaniards call it God," said an unfamiliar voice from the corner of the room.
Startled, we looked round. The two dragoons had gone — their brooms stood propped against the wall - but the Spanish muleteer who had brought Captain Salignac's baggage was squatting in the corner, wrapped in a brown, homespun cloak and saying his rosary. The torchlight fell on his broad, red, exceedingly ugly face, and his thick lips were shaping an endless prayer. He had spread a coarse woollen cloth on the floor, and on it lay some bread and garlic.
We were more surprised than dismayed, I think, when first we perceived that it was the Spaniard whose simple words had intruded on our conversation, but we quickly grasped what had happened.
The man had overheard our secret. It had taken only minutes to betray the thing that each of us had so carefully concealed for a twelvemonth: that Françoise-Marie, our colonel's wife, had been the mistress of us all. We were at a stranger's mercy. I seemed to see the colonel's bearded face close to mine, convulsed with murderous rage. My knees trembled and an icy torrent coursed down my spine. This was the moment we had been dreading for a full year: the hour of doom had struck.
We stood there in silence, appalled and nonplussed. One long minute limped by. Befuddled no longer, I was suddenly as sober as if no drop of wine had ever touched my lips, but my head ached and my heart was heavy with fear. I could hear a dog howling outside in the yard. The muffled, plaintive sound seemed to issue from my own throat, almost as if I myself, wild with terror, were moaning and lamenting in the snow.
Eglofstein recovered his composure at last. He squared his shoulders and walked over to the Spaniard with a menacing air, riding crop in hand. "What, not gone yet? Why are you sitting there eavesdropping?"
"I am waiting as instructed, Señor Militär."
"You speak French?"
"A few words only, señor," the Spaniard mumbled, looking frightened and confused. "My wife came to these parts from the town of Bayonne - I learned them from her. Sacré chien, she taught me, and sacré matin and gaillard, petit gaillard, and bon garçon, and vive la nation. That's all I know."
"Enough of your litany!" Günther shouted. "You're a spy. You stole in here to glean what intelligence you could."
"I'm no spy!" the muleteer protested. "Holy Mother of God, I did no more than show that strange officer the way and carry his baggage. Ask Brother Francisco of the Barnabite Fraternity about me - ask the reverend chaplain of the Eremita de Nuestra Señora. They both know old Perico - ask them, Señor Militär!"
"To hell with your priests and your poetry!" cried Brockendorf. "Speak when you're spoken to, spy. Till then, hold your tongue!"
The Spaniard fell silent. He spat a morsel of bread and garlic on the floor and looked uneasily from one to another, but all he saw were grim and merciless faces devoid of compassion.
We put our heads together over the table and held a whispered council of war. The howling of the dog grew louder. It was now quite close at hand.
"He must go," said Donop. "He must quit this town at once. If he blabs we're lost - all of us."
"Impossible," I said. "The sentries are under orders to let no one past the gate."
"I'll never rest while that fellow's at liberty to tell what he overheard
"I regret what I did," Donop said sadly. "Here we sit, the five of us, with nothing left to us of that time save disgust, jealousy and hatred."
He put his head in his hands, and the wine in him proceeded to philosophize.
"Right and wrong, comrades, are an ill-matched team. Each has a different gait, but there are times when I seem to discern the hand that holds them both on the rein and ploughs the world's tilth. What name should I give it, the mysterious force that has made us all so wretched and foolish? Should I call it fate, or chance, or the everlasting law of the stars?"
"We Spaniards call it God," said an unfamiliar voice from the corner of the room.
Startled, we looked round. The two dragoons had gone — their brooms stood propped against the wall - but the Spanish muleteer who had brought Captain Salignac's baggage was squatting in the corner, wrapped in a brown, homespun cloak and saying his rosary. The torchlight fell on his broad, red, exceedingly ugly face, and his thick lips were shaping an endless prayer. He had spread a coarse woollen cloth on the floor, and on it lay some bread and garlic.
We were more surprised than dismayed, I think, when first we perceived that it was the Spaniard whose simple words had intruded on our conversation, but we quickly grasped what had happened.
The man had overheard our secret. It had taken only minutes to betray the thing that each of us had so carefully concealed for a twelvemonth: that Françoise-Marie, our colonel's wife, had been the mistress of us all. We were at a stranger's mercy. I seemed to see the colonel's bearded face close to mine, convulsed with murderous rage. My knees trembled and an icy torrent coursed down my spine. This was the moment we had been dreading for a full year: the hour of doom had struck.
We stood there in silence, appalled and nonplussed. One long minute limped by. Befuddled no longer, I was suddenly as sober as if no drop of wine had ever touched my lips, but my head ached and my heart was heavy with fear. I could hear a dog howling outside in the yard. The muffled, plaintive sound seemed to issue from my own throat, almost as if I myself, wild with terror, were moaning and lamenting in the snow.
Eglofstein recovered his composure at last. He squared his shoulders and walked over to the Spaniard with a menacing air, riding crop in hand. "What, not gone yet? Why are you sitting there eavesdropping?"
"I am waiting as instructed, Señor Militär."
"You speak French?"
"A few words only, señor," the Spaniard mumbled, looking frightened and confused. "My wife came to these parts from the town of Bayonne - I learned them from her. Sacré chien, she taught me, and sacré matin and gaillard, petit gaillard, and bon garçon, and vive la nation. That's all I know."
"Enough of your litany!" Günther shouted. "You're a spy. You stole in here to glean what intelligence you could."
"I'm no spy!" the muleteer protested. "Holy Mother of God, I did no more than show that strange officer the way and carry his baggage. Ask Brother Francisco of the Barnabite Fraternity about me - ask the reverend chaplain of the Eremita de Nuestra Señora. They both know old Perico - ask them, Señor Militär!"
"To hell with your priests and your poetry!" cried Brockendorf. "Speak when you're spoken to, spy. Till then, hold your tongue!"
The Spaniard fell silent. He spat a morsel of bread and garlic on the floor and looked uneasily from one to another, but all he saw were grim and merciless faces devoid of compassion.
We put our heads together over the table and held a whispered council of war. The howling of the dog grew louder. It was now quite close at hand.
"He must go," said Donop. "He must quit this town at once. If he blabs we're lost - all of us."
"Impossible," I said. "The sentries are under orders to let no one past the gate."
"I'll never rest while that fellow's at liberty to tell what he overheard
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