The Golden Bough. Gibbs George

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 a dormant devil in his host.

      "A prisoner! The Germans!" He repeated quickly. "And you come here to Nemi. Who sent you hither?"

      "Why, no one, Monsieur," said the American, easily, with a smile which concealed his growing curiosity. "I do not even know just when or where I crossed the border."

      "Ah. It is strange-that you should come here. Italian, too-"

      Ivanitch wagged his great head quickly. The girl Tanya broke in with a short laugh.

      "Monsieur Rowlan' is not the first escaping soldier who has passed through the village. You remember, last week-"

      "But he went away, Tanya Korasov-he did not stay-" broke in Ivanitch excitedly.

      The American rose from his chair, mystified.

      "As I shall do now, Monsieur, if you will permit me-"

      He took a pace toward a door which seemed to lead toward the front of the house, but the girl stood before him and faced her compatriot, who had sank again in his chair, his head deep in his shoulders.

      "For shame, Kirylo Ivanitch," she said in a spirited voice. "For shame! That you should be so inhospitable! The man is dead upon his feet and you send him out into the night-to be interned perhaps tomorrow!"

      "An escaping prisoner! A slave!" He rose from his chair, brushing his hair back with a wild gesture. "You were a slave, were you not-a slave to the Germans? Answer me."

      Had the man suddenly gone mad? Or was the brain of the Légionnaire suffering from a delusion of its own weariness? What was the meaning of this extraordinary conversation? What the significance of this sudden and strange hostility? And what difference could it make to this man Ivanitch whether he, Rowland, had been a slave or not?

      The American shrugged and smiled again, more patiently.

      "A slave?" he replied. "One might call it that. I worked like a dog upon a railroad. I was chained to the man next me, and would have been shot had I attempted resistance."

      The result of this innocent explanation was still more surprising.

      "There!" cried the Russian, wildly exhorting the girl. "Did I not tell you so? A slave-an escaping slave-here at Nemi. Let him go, I say, or I shall not answer for the consequences."

      "Of course, Monsieur-" said Rowland.

      But at a sign from the girl, the American paused at the door and stood, his weariness forgotten in the curious dialogue that followed, which seemed to plunge him deeper into the mystery of this strange couple and the house of the walled garden. The girl Tanya crossed the room swiftly and noiselessly and laid her hand upon the arm of Kirylo Ivanitch, who now paced to and fro before the fireplace, like some caged beast, his head lowered, seeming not to see but furtively watching the dusty boots of the astonished fugitive.

      "It is not possible, Kirylo," she said softly. "He knows nothing. Would he not have broken IT at once? Who was to have prevented him? Not I. He is merely a boy and free from guile. Can you not see?"

      "It is dangerous for him to remain," gasped the Russian.

      "It is more dangerous for you to indulge these mad fancies. IT is safe yonder. Go and see for yourself. I, Tanya Korasov, will vouch for this weary fugitive. But you shall not turn a loyal ally of Russia out into the night. Tomorrow he shall go forth and you shall send him, refreshed and safely conducted to the border of France, when he will go and fight your battles and mine, with the common enemy of Humanity. Do you hear?"

      He stared at her, sullenly.

      "I shall conduct him nowhere. I wish him to go," he said.

      But the girl stood her ground, continuing calmly:

      "Tomorrow morning you shall give him a suit of civilian clothing and he will go upon his way, thanking you, Kirylo Ivanitch. That is all."

      "A boy? Yes. No doubt… But Destiny is too strong. Italian! What if-"

      He paused, running his bony fingers through his long hair.

      "Impossible. It cannot be," she soothed him.

      "I have much to do-tomorrow or next day they are coming-the conference is momentous. If anything should-"

      "Sh-! He shall be gone."

      The girl turned to the American as though to atone for the strange conduct of her compatriot, and smiled graciously.

      "You will forgive the whim of Monsieur Ivanitch, СКАЧАТЬ