"Ah, les braves Anglais!" said the marquis, grasping Burton’s right hand with his left, and jerking his arm up and down like a pump handle. They looked at old Pierre, who had raised himself, and was feebly shouting: "Vivent les Anglais! Vive monsieur le sourd-muet!" Then, to Burton’s amazement, he cracked his fingers, and laughed like a lunatic. "The poor fellow’s brain is turned," said the marquis. "No, no, monsieur, I am not crazy. Ah, ah! it was a trick to play!" "What are you raving about, mon vieux?" asked the marquis. "The smoke, monsieur! The paper! I gave the spy Schwikkard a foretaste. Ha! Surely he believed his last hour was come. See, monsieur, I burnt some brown paper in the stove under his nose. He would fire the château! Eh bien! assuredly he believed it was already on fire. It was drôle, monsieur--fine trick, n’est-ce pas?" "Schwikkard is our prisoner, without doubt," said Burton to the marquis. "Shall we untie him?" At this moment entered Major Colpus of the Lancers, stepping gingerly over the wreck of door and furniture. "A pretty mess they have made of it," he said, with double intent. "You are Burton?" "That’s my name." "Captain Rolfe told us we should catch a half-regiment of hussars if we hurried. He rather expected you would be a prisoner. We got to the village just as some of the Germans were hauling away one Boitelet, the village smith, it appears. They left him to us, and he gave us an inkling that you were concerned in the rumpus here. The Germans have skedaddled; we have a few prisoners below. You have had a whack or two, I see." "I wasn’t aware of it," said Burton, looking with surprise at dark stains on his blouse. "The marquis and his man are both wounded." "Glad to meet you, monsieur," said the officer, who, with British shyness, had affected to ignore the presence of all but Burton. Now, however, he greeted monsieur and madame courteously, knelt down and rendered capable first-aid to the marquis and Pierre, and seeing at a glance that the man in bed was very ill, dispatched Burton for the regimental medico. It was not until the doctor was engaged with his patients that Burton found an opportunity of releasing Major Schwikkard, and handing him as a prisoner to the British officer. He was scarcely recognisable. The long vigil, with the dread of being roasted by his own instructions, had broken him both in body and mind. He looked years older. His cheeks had fallen in, his whole frame shook, and his hair was patched with white. When Major Colpus addressed him cheerily, he stammered, tried to complete a sentence, and burst into tears. "Poor wretch!" the major murmured. "Doctor, here’s another patient for you. Now, Mr. Burton, come and tell me all that has happened." "I want to get back to my aeroplane," protested Burton. "No hurry for that. Your friend, the smith, has borrowed a spare mount, and ridden off to the town to fetch something or other for it. I shan’t let you off."