Dalroy obeyed without a word. He felt inexplicably weary. In that unhappy hour body and soul alike were crushed. But the cloud lifted soon. His spirit was the spirit of the immortals; it raised itself out of the slough of despond. The day was closing in rapidly; lowering clouds and steady rain conspired to rob the sun of some part of his prerogatives. At seven o'clock it would be dark, whereas the almanac fixed the close of day at eight. It was then about half-past six. Resolutely casting off the torpor which had benumbed his brain after parting from the woman he loved, Dalroy looked about him. The hussars, some twenty all told, reduced now to seventeen, since the messengers had ridden off without delay, were gathered in a knot around the corporal. Some of their horses were tethered in the barn, others were picketed outside. Scraps of talk reached him. "This will be a plume in your cap, Franz." "A thousand marks, picked up in a filthy hole like this! _Almächtig!_" "What are they? Spies?" "Didn't you hear? They stabbed Major Busch with a stable fork. Jolly old Busch--one of the best!" "And bayoneted two officers of the Westphalian commissariat, wounding a third." "The devil! Was there a fight?" "Some of the fellows said Busch and the others must have been drunk." "Quite likely. I was drunk every day then." A burst of laughter. "Lucky dog!" "_Ach, was!_ what's the good of having been drunk so long ago? There isn't a bottle of wine now within five miles." "Tell us then, _Herr Kaporal_, do we remain here till dawn?" Dalroy grew faintly interested. It was absurd to harbour the slightest expectation of Jan Maertz bringing succour, but one might at least analyse the position, though the only visible road led straight to a firing-party. "Those were our orders," answered Franz. "Things may be altered now. You fellows haven't grasped the real value of this cop. It wasn't stated on the notice, but somebody of much more importance than any ordinary officer was interested in the girl being caught--she far more than the man." "Well, well! Tastes differ! A peasant like that!" "You silly ass, she's no peasant. That's the worst of living in a suburb. You acquire no standard of comparison." These men were Berliners, and were amused by a sly dig at some locality which, like Koepenick, offered a butt for German humour. "Hello! isn't that a car?" said one. There was silence. The thrumming of a powerful automobile could be heard through the patter of the rain. "Attention!" growled Franz. A few troopers went to the picketed horses. The others lined up. A closed motor-car arrived. Its brilliant head-lights proclaimed the certain fact that the presence of Belgian troops in that locality was not feared. Dalroy recognised this at once, and forthwith dismissed from his mind the last shred of hope.