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This etext was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset.

BARLASCH OF THE GUARD BY HENRY SETON MERRIMAN

     “And they that have not heardshall understand”

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I.      ALL ON A SUMMER’S DAY
II.     A CAMPAIGNER
III.    FATE
IV.     THE CLOUDED MOON
V.      THE WEISSENRÖSS’L
VI.      THE SHOEMAKER OF KÖNIGSBERG
VII.   THE WAY OF LOVE
VIII.    A VISITATION
IX.     THE GOLDEN GUESS
X.      IN DEEPWATER
XI.      THE WAVE MOVES ON
XII.   FROM BORODINO
XIII.    IN THE DAY OF REJOICING
XIV.   MOSCOW
XV.      THE GOAL
XVI.   THE FIRST OF THE EBB
XVII.    A FORLORN HOPE
XVIII.  MISSING
XIX.    KOWNO
XX.     DÉSIRÉE’S CHOICE
XXI.    ON THEWARSAW ROAD
XXII.    THROUGH THE SHOALS
XXIII.  AGAINST THE STREAM
XXIV.    MATHILDE CHOOSES
XXV.   A DESPATCH
XXVI.    ON THE BRIDGE
XXVII.  A FLASH OF MEMORY
XXVIII.  VILNA
XXIX.   THE BARGAIN
XXX.    THE FULFILMENT

CHAPTER I.  ALL ON A SUMMER’S DAY.

     Il faut devoir lever les yeux pourregarder ce qu’on aime.

A few children had congregated on the steps of the Marienkirche atDantzig, because the door stood open.  The verger, old Peter Koch—onweek days a locksmith—had told them that nothing was going tohappen; had been indiscreet enough to bid them go away.  So theystayed, for they were little girls.

A wedding was in point of fact in progress within the towering wallsof the Marienkirche—a cathedral built of red brick in the greatdays of the Hanseatic League.

“Who is it?” asked a stout fishwife, stepping over thethreshold to whisper to Peter Koch.

“It is the younger daughter of Antoine Sebastian,” repliedthe verger, indicating with a nod of his head the house on the left-handside of the Frauengasse where Sebastian lived.  There was a wealthof meaning in the nod.  For Peter Koch lived round the corner inthe Kleine Schmiedegasse, and of course—well, it is only neighbourlyto take an interest in those who drink milk from the same cow and buywood from the same Jew.

The fishwife looked thoughtfully down the Frauengasse where everyhouse has a different gable, and none of less than three floors withinthe pitch of the roof.  She singled out No. 36, which has a carvedstone balustrade to its broad verandah and a railing of wrought-ironon either side of the steps descending from the verandah to the street.

“They teach dancing?” she inquired.

And Koch nodded again, taking snuff.

“And he—the father?”

“He scrapes a fiddle,” replied the verger, examiningthe lady’s basket of fish in a non-committing and final way. For a locksmith is almost as confidential an adviser as a notary. The Dantzigers, moreover, are a thrifty race and keep their money ina safe place; a habit which was to cost many of them their lives beforethe coming of another June.

The marriage service was a long one and not exhilarating.  Throughthe open door came no sound of organ or choir, but the deep and monotonousdrawl of one voice.  There had been no ringing of bells. The north countries, with the exception of Russia, require more thanthe ringing of bells or the waving of flags to warm their hearts. They celebrate their festivities with good meat and wine consumed decentlybehind closed doors.

Dantzig was in fact under a cloud.  No larger than a man’shand, this cloud had risen in Corsica forty-three years earlier. It had overshadowed France.  Its gloom had spread to Italy, Austria,Spain; had penetrated so far north as Sweden; was now hanging sullenover Dantzig, the greatest of the Hanseatic towns, the Free City. For a Dantziger had never needed to say that he was a Pole or a Prussian,a Swede or a subject of the Czar.  He was a Dantziger.  Whichis tantamount to having for a postal address a single name that is markedon the map.

Napoleon had garrisoned the Free City with French troops some yearsearlier, to the sullen astonishment of the citizens.  And Prussiahad not objected for a very obvious reason.  Within the last fourteenmonths the garrison had been greatly augmented.  The clouds seemedto be gathering over this prosperous city of the north, where, however,men continued to eat and drink, to marry and to be given in marriageas in another city of the plain.

Peter Koch replaced his snuff-stained handkerchief in the pocketof his rusty cassock and stood aside.  He murmured a few conventionalwords of blessing, hard on the heels of stronger exhortations to thewaiting children.  And Désirée Sebastian came outinto the sunlight—Désirée Sebastian no more.

That she was destined for the sunlight was clearly written on herface and in her gay, kind blue eyes.  She was tall and straightand slim, as are English and Polish and Danish girls, and none otherin all the world.  But the colouring of her face and hair was morepronounced than in the fairness of Anglo-Saxon youth.  For herhair had a golden tinge in it, and her skin was of that startlinglymilky whiteness which is only found in those who live round the frozenwaters.  Her eyes, too, were of a clearer blue—like the blueof a summer sky over the Baltic sea.  The rosy colour was in hercheeks, her eyes were laughing.  This was a bride who had no misgivings.

On seeing such a happy face returning from the altar the observermight have concluded that the bride had assuredly attained her desire;