tells of my ramble with the gray meteor and of his singular conduct, and of a discovery which i made.
i have seen soldiers suffering from shell shock led across the boulevard in paris, held by the hand like children. i have seen one, a great, strapping fellow, guided to his seat in a restaurant. i have seen one stand upon the street wringing his hands and sobbing because he did not know which way to go. and no one of these unfortunates that i have ever seen would have ventured out alone upon the most trifling errand. panic fear of themselves is their most distressing and conspicuous symptom.
yet here was one of them whose last vestige of stamina seemed to have forsaken him, but who had yet penetrated into these rugged mountain heights. it was not so much the distance from france, as the endless up-and-down distances and winding ways of those alpine fastnesses which made the thing seem impossible. apparently he had a half forgotten smattering of some of the primitive outdoor arts and i had won his confidence and aroused some hope and interest in him by promising him a “hike.” but he was no more able to reach this sequestered spot unaided than a baby in arms.
who, then, had aided him?
try as i would, i could not persuade him to remain over night at my little inn, the fear of any noise seeming constantly with him, and i let him go, realizing with regret that perhaps he was as well off in his solitude with only the softer voices of nature about him.
but in the morning i was early at his retreat, with high hopes of the little excursion which awaited us. for i had thought that a quiet ramble in those unfrequented places would be a balm and solace to his poor nerves and wavering mind. little did i dream what that ramble would reveal.
our path took us through a forest thick with pines of such magnificence as i had never before seen, one as much like another as the pillars of a collonade, and for which this jura range is famous. i have it from my host that after rainy weather the pungent odor from these pines is actually intoxicating and that wayfarers have been known to slumber under its fragrant influence for several days. i think i shall never again smell the spirit-rousing pungence of a christmas tree without recalling our memorable ramble in that dim cathedral of the jura mountains.
i noticed that the sounds of nature had no such distressing effect upon my companion as did the ruder clamor of human clap-trap, and that he was more at ease in these majestic scenes. perhaps kind nature, that great physician who asks no fee, had pointed out his solitary cave to him, after the thunderous tumult of the war—i do not know. but in any event he seemed more at ease than i had yet seen him. and i perceived clearly enough then that he was not insane—only that he had lost his grip.
he seemed to take an interest in everything about us and surprised me with the knowledge which he showed of nature and her little oddities. once he picked up a twig saying that it had grown on the north side of a tree, and again a scrap of rock which he said was sandstone. “they’re all sandstone, these mountains,” he said, or rather asked, as if he were not quite sure of himself and afraid that i would contradict him.
“yes,” i said. “i guess they’re mostly sandstone,” though, to tell you the truth, they might have been soapstone for all i knew.
not once did he speak of the war and when i cautiously mentioned it in a casual way he paid no attention. it seemed that he had forgotten all about it—blessed lapse of memory, i thought.
well, after a while we came upon rough country, like a miniature chain of mountains up there amid those mighty peaks. here were rocky hollows and no end of little caves and glens—such picturesqueness as i had never seen. they say these caves are filled with the bones of extinct animals and one bleached relic i picked up. but my companion told me that it was only wood. “see,” he said smiling, “it has a grain.”
i think it was the first instance of a genuine smile that i had seen upon his wan countenance.
presently he kneeled down and examined some mossy earth, and straightway, to my regret, he became greatly excited. we were in a sort of little canon which extended some hundred yards or so and petered out in an area of fairly level forest land where the trees grew sparsely in a rocky soil.
“what is it?” i asked, a bit anxiously.
“see?” he said, standing and placing his heel in the moss. “see?”
“you mean it’s a footprint?” i asked.
“see?” he asked nervously, almost in suspense, as if dreading my reply.
“surely,” said i; “i dare say others have passed here. we are not so far from the village.”
“it’s mine,” he said. “see?” and ignoring me, he crept along, for all the world as if he had lost something, examining the earth with great concern and increasing satisfaction.
i had never before seen him so interested, and my own interest was aroused, for if he had indeed passed here himself it might afford a clue to something or other—though i did not know what.
“it is only moss,” i said, “and——”
“it’s wax-moss,” he interrupted me with the first sign of assurance he had ever shown. “they stay in wax-moss—see?”
he was now so engrossed with his quest that i could but watch and follow him.
“have you been here before?” i queried. he gave no heed, but hurried along through the gully until, having gone a hundred feet or more, his will power seemed to collapse and he waited for me, wringing his hands distressingly.
“what is it?” i said.
“it’s over there,” he answered, clutching me in evident terror.
“well, we’ll go and see it,” i answered cheerily, and we moved along, he still clutching me as if afraid that i would desert him.
it was curious to see how the one or two footprints he had found aroused him to a flight of energy which petered out as quickly and left him helpless and agitated. i could not for the life of me imagine why those footprints should have interested him so and sent him loping along the gully. he found no others, but apparently the sight of those two or three produced a glimmer of memory in him. evidently he had been here before, and was wishful to retrace his former path but lacked the will and courage to do so.
“i know where it is,” he said, wringing his hands. “i know now. will you go with me?”
his look was so imploring and his voice so full of a kind of panic fear that i was persuaded there was something he wished to show me but dared not. his will seemed to tipple like a seesaw between resolution and irresolution, and he fell into the old habit of starting and clutching me at every sound.
“come,” i said, “i’ll go with you.”
i cannot describe the eager terror in his eyes, the trembling of his hands as he clutched my arm, and the irresolute pauses which he made as he passed along through the gully. finally he seemed about to clamber out of the rocky depression, hesitated, and broke down utterly, sobbing like a child.
“look—there—,” he at last managed to gasp “you—go—and see.” and he gulped and tightened his grasp in panic fright.
i looked across a mass of piled up rock and saw, some distance away, a large object which seemed to stir as i watched it.
“that’s it,” he said.
“all right,” said i. “you stay here, sit down on that stone and i’ll go and see.”
he sat down, twirling the cord around his neck and watching me eagerly. as i clambered up the low embankment, he started at the slight noise i made.
picking my way among the boulders i approached the object, until, a few feet from it, i paused and looked at it aghast. it was the wreck of a german observation balloon. the gas was entirely gone from its great bag which lay plastered down upon the rocks, and its formerly glass-enclosed car was in complete ruin. i think it must have blown across those rocks for some distance to have been so shattered.
but all the details of its wreck and dilapidation were as nothing to me when i saw certain markings on the broken side of its car. there were two black crosses side by side, with the german imperial coat of arms between them.
the balloon with the two black crosses was known far and wide upon the west front. it was the little palace, the lofty headquarters of an arch demon of aerial frightfulness, who was the peering eye and minion of his murderous superiors. i had talked with those who knew and catered to this sneaking beast, and cowered before his swaggering arrogance—a poor little french girl and her crippled father. he it was who had come from america to help the fatherland; who “knew about ze ships, when zey will go”; whose two black crosses were a mark of special honor and distinction!
well, by the grace of heaven, he was a mystery no longer. poor, dribbling, guilt-haunted wretch—he had brought me face to face with the wrecked instrument of his crimes.
i make no excuse for what i did—i am only human. i strode back to where the stricken creature sat, twirling and twisting the cord about his neck. i was trembling and my words came short and spasmodic, but whether from amazement or rage i do not know now. i only know that he cowered before me like a reed blown in the blast—it stings me to the heart as i think of it now.
“so you have got your reward,” i said. “be sure that god knows how to punish such as you! i have seen your evil eye put out and there, there it lies, over among those rocks. you must come back to it, eh? like a murderer to its victim!”
his breath came in great, panting gulps, he wrung and twisted his hands, and his look—oh, it will haunt me forever.
“i know who you are now! you will tell a little french girl that americans are murderers and hang their people to lamp-posts! america, where you lived yourself and made your living—— now you’ve got your reward! i have seen the house that you defiled with your presence—the little cottage of a french peasant! i don’t know how many ships lie at the bottom of the ocean on account of you, you sneaking, lying blackguard! but you’ve got your reward. those innocent women and babies at the bottom of the sea are better off than you—with your peering eye put out and your senses drivelling. no wonder you’re afraid! probably the thunder of some yankee cannon knocked your brain endways. the most bestial german is a saint compared with you—monsieur le capitaine!” i sneered. “no, keep away from me!” for he held his hands toward me with a pitiful gesture. “i’ll not interfere with the decree of god. you can wander in these mountains like a lost soul for all i care—drivelling about poor murdered indians in america. if you’ve forgotten your name, i’ll tell it to you. it’s toby! i know of one other almost as bad as you are—slade his name is—who would sell his country. over there at that balloon is a piece of broken cable—go and hang yourself with it—if you’ve got the nerve!”
and with that i marched away. scarcely had i gone ten paces when his voice rose in a scream to wake the heavens. again and again he screeched in an anguish of despair and his piercing cries echoed from those lonely mountains until they died away in pitiable sobs.
but i never so much as turned to look at him.
