The False Faces | Page 2

in a long
arc from the German trenches, the soldiers imitated his action, and, as
long as those triple stars shone in the murk, made themselves one with
him and the heedless dead. Two lay so close beside him that the man
could have touched either by moving a hand a mere six inches; he was
at pains to do nothing of the sort; he was sedulous to clench his teeth
against their chattering, even to hold his breath, and regretted that he
might not mute the thumping of his heart. Nor dared he stir until, the
lights fading out, the patrol rose and skulked onward.
Thereafter his movements were less stealthy; with a detachment of their
own abroad in No Man's Land, the British would refrain from shooting
at shadows. One had now to fear only German bullets in event the
patrol were discovered.
Rising, the man slipped and stumbled on in semi-crouching posture,
ready to flatten to earth as soon as any one of his many overshoulder
glances detected another sky-spearing flight of sparks. But this
necessity he was spared; no more lights were discharged before he
groped through the wires to the parapet, with almost uncanny good luck,
finding the very spot where the British had come over the top, indicated
by protruding uprights of a rough wooden scaling ladder.
As he turned, felt with a foot for the uppermost rung, and began to
descend, he was saluted by a voice hoarse with exposure, from the
black bowels of the trench:

"Blimy! but ye're back in a 'urry! Wot's up? Forget to put perfume on
yer pocket-'andkerchief--or wot?"
The man's response, if he made any, was lost in a heavy splash as his
feet slipped on the slimy rungs, delivering him precipitately into a
knee-deep stream of foul water which moved sluggishly through the
trench like the current of a half-choked sewer--a circumstance which
neither suprised him nor added to his physical discomfort, who could
be no more wet or defiled than he had been.
Floundering to a foothold, he cast about vainly for a clue to the other's
whereabouts; for if the night was thick in the open, here in the trench
its density was as that of the pit; the man could distinguish positively
nothing more than a pallid rift where the walls opened overhead.
"Well, sullen, w'ere's yer manners? Carn't yer answer a civil question?"
Turning toward the speaker, the man replied in good if rather carefully
enunciated English:
"I am not of your comrades. I am come from the enemy trenches."
"The 'ell yer are! 'Ands up!"
The muzzle of a rifle prodded the man's stomach. Obediently he lifted
both hands above his head. A thought later, he was half blinded by the
sudden spot-light of an electric flash-lamp.
"Deserter, eh? You kamerad--wot?"
"Kamerad!" the man echoed with an accent of contempt. "I am no
German--I am French. I have come through the Boche lines to-night
with important information which I desire to communicate forthwith to
your commanding officer."
"Strike me!" his catechist breathed, skeptical.
There was a new sound of splashing in the trench. A third voice chimed
in: "'Ello? Wot's all the row abaht?"
"Step up and tike a look for yerself. 'Ere's a blighter wot sez 'e's com
from the Germ trenches with important information for the O.C."
"Bloody liar," the newcomer commented dispassionately. "Mind yer
eye. Likely it's just another pl'yful little trick of the giddy Boche. 'Ere
you!" The splashing drew nearer. "Wot's yer gime? Speak up if yer
don't want a bullet through yer in'ards."
"I play no game," the man said patiently. "I am unarmed--your prisoner,
if you like."
"I like, all right. Mike yer mind easy abaht that. But wot's all this

'important information'?"
"I shall divulge that only to the proper authorities. Be good enough to
conduct me to your commanding officer without more delay."
"Wot do yer mike of 'im, corp'ril?" the first soldier enquired. "'Ow
abaht an inch or two o' the bay'net to loosen 'is tongue?"
After a moment's hesitation in perplexed silence, the corporal took the
flash-lamp from the private and with its beam raked the prisoner from
head to foot, gaining little enlightenment from this review of a tall,
spare figure clothed in the familiar gray overcoat of the German
private--its face a mere mask of mud through which shone eyes of
singular brilliance and steadiness, the eyes of a man of intelligence,
determination, and courage.
"Keep yer 'ands 'igh," the corporal advised curtly. "Ginger, you search
'im."
Propping his rifle against the wall of the trench, its butt on the
firing-step just out of water, the private proceeded painstakingly to
examine the person of the prisoner; in course of which process he
unbuttoned and threw open the gray overcoat, exposing