to fight, Mademoiselle-?"
"With subtler weapons than yours. It is to that I dedicate my life-"
She rose suddenly as though realizing that she had already said too much. She picked up the dish and bowl and took an irresolute step away from him. "I would like to ask you to stay, but-"
She paused and whispered quickly. "He comes. Say nothing. Let me tell your story. Perhaps you may remain to sleep here."
And following her glance, he saw a figure emerging from the gloom in the direction of the house, the tall figure of a man, with shoulders bent and eager eyes which, like those of a black nocturnal cat had already caught a pale reflection of the lantern's gleams.
CHAPTER II
ENIGMA
As the man came nearer, he seemed a remarkable creature. His coat, of the kind known in the eighties as a Prince Albert, hung loosely from his lean square shoulders, to a point midway between hip and knee. His hair was dark and long and wisps of it had fallen over his broad pale forehead to which they adhered as though a tight hat-band had pressed them there. Heavy eye-brows met above a long narrow nose, which jutted down over lips turned in, thin and impalpable, to the square chin which was thrust out aggressively as he strode forward, his hands working unpleasantly at the ends of his long wrists.
"What's this, Tanya Korasov?" he asked in a sharp querulous voice.
"A hungry soldier, Kirylo Ivanitch," said the girl.
Her shining eyes glanced quickly toward the daïs.
"He came-"
"Over the wall. He was much in need of rest and food-"
"Ah-" growled the other. "A soldier-"
"He goes to join his colors."
The frown on the brows of the man in the Prince Albert relaxed and he seemed to give a gasp of relief as he examined the intruder more calmly.
"The world has gone rabid with the smell of blood. Even here, all about us-" He broke off suddenly, turning to the girl. "You have fed him?"
"Yes, Kirylo. But I doubted-"
"We are not savages, Monsieur," he broke in. "You shall be made comfortable for the night. Come. Tanya, the lantern."
And he led the way across the lawn to the house, while Tanya mounted the daïs for the lantern and followed them. Whatever the doubts of the girl as to the hospitality which might be accorded him, the fugitive now saw no reason to suspect the intentions of the strange gentleman in the Prince Albert coat, for as they reached the building he stood aside, indicating the lighted doorway.
"Enter, mon ami," he said. "It shall not be said that this house refuses charity or alms to any seeker after Liberty, even though he go about his quest in a manner with which we disapprove."
"Thanks, Monsieur," said the soldier gratefully.
The room which they entered was the kitchen, and the two persons who occupied it, an aged woman and a youngish man with a shock of yellow hair, paused in the act of masticating, remaining with their full mouths open and eyes staring until the young soldier had passed through the door into the main building beyond. In the brief moment of passing them, the American experienced the same sense of vague hostility as that which had first greeted him in the man Ivanitch, a querulous attitude of anxious suspicion, which for some unknown reason had now disappeared, – a look of expectancy in their eyes, or was it a veiled fear, as of some danger which might come upon them unawares? Was this the reason for the wall? And if so, why a girl in a monk's cowl for sentry?
He was too weary to analyze the return of his impressions and when the Russian reached the room beyond the kitchen, he motioned the Légionnaire to a chair while he bade the girl Tanya bring forth glasses and a jug.
"Sit a moment, Monsieur the soldier," he said suavely. "It is Chartreuse-the real Chartreuse, made years ago by the monks not many leagues from here-there is little of it left even in Switzerland. It will give you new life."
The soldier pledged his host and hostess and drank.
"You are very good," he said with real gratitude. "I came to steal and go upon my way," he smiled. "And so your kindness and that of Mademoiselle covers me with confusion."
"Ah! Necessity knows no law," said the Russian pleasantly. "You shall have a bed, a night of sleep. And your necessity shall be our pleasure."
"But my intrusion! If one lives within a wall it is doubtless to keep people out. But in helping me, Monsieur, you are helping France. And in helping France, – Russia."
"Russia!" There was a finality of despair in the tone with which Kirylo Ivanitch uttered the word. "May God grant her help-for she needs it. We pray for her-as we work for her in secret-in secret."
Ivanitch clasped his bony fingers and squeezed them until the knuckles cracked. "If it will give you courage to fight with steel and bullets, I will tell you that great things are in the air, for Russia and for all the world."
"Freedom," said the American. "I know. It is written. So much blood cannot be shed in vain."
"We labor for the same end, you and I," went on the Russian. "The same end, but with different means-" And then, with a look of quick inspection-"You join the Legion soon again?"
The gaze of the Russian quickened as for the first time he noted the soldier's uniform.
"What is your name, Monsieur?"
"Phil Rowland."
"Rowlan'?" He puzzled over the pronunciation slowly
"Rowland. I am an American."
"Ah-American!"
"My mother was Italian-"
"But American. How happens it that you are here in this uniform?"
"I'm a citizen of the world, a nomad. I like adventure. And so when the war broke out I sailed and joined the Foreign Legion."
"The Legion! A regiment of young devils. It is madness. A mad cause-to what end?"
"That France may live."
"Ah, yes." And then, suddenly, "You join the Legion soon again?"
The American would have replied, but the girl Tanya, who had stood behind his chair, broke in quickly.
"Monsieur Rowlan' is tired, Kirylo Ivanitch. Is it not better that I show him to his room? Tomorrow he will tell you-"
"Your Chartreuse has already restored me, Mademoiselle."
The Russian waved his hand and Tanya Korasov sank into a chair.
"An American! I have always wanted to go to America. One day you will learn to think over there. And then you will be able to help with the great problems of Europe. Your mother was Italian?" he asked.
Phil Rowland smiled good-naturedly at the persistence of his questioner.
"Yes, Monsieur. Of an ancient and noble family. But in America we make little of ancestry."
"Yet, it is important."
The deep gaze of the Russian, which had been fixed upon the jug upon the table, turned slowly and fastened upon the uniform of the Légionnaire, the shocking condition of which had not been visible in the dim light of the garden.
"You have fared badly, Monsieur Rowlan'. Your uniform shows hard usage."
"What would you? I was captured in it and have worn it ever since. The Boches do not trouble to send their prisoners to a tailor."
"The Boches! You were, then, a prisoner of the Germans-?"
The Russian straightened in his chair, his bony hands clasping its arms, his brows tangling suddenly.
"Until three weeks ago, yes, Monsieur."
It was not imagination that gave Phil Rowland the notion that the tone of voice of the Russian had suddenly changed again. He felt the black eyes, now almost hidden under the dark bushy brows, burning into his own. And while he could not explain the feeling of inquietude, he realized that some chance remark of his had aroused