The revellers were silent before the apparition. Then one, drunker than the rest, flung a bottle which grazed his right ear. That put the finishing touch to his temper. Roaring like a bull, he was among them, prodding their hinder parts with his bayonet, and now and then reversing his rifle to crack a head. He had not played centre-forward in the old days at Celtic Park for nothing. The place emptied in a twinkling—all but one man whose legs could not support him. Him Private Galbraith seized by the scruff and the slack of his trousers, and tossed into the street.
“Now I’ll hae my breakfast,” he said to the trembling landlord.
Private Galbraith, much the better for his exercise, made a hearty meal of bread and cold ham, and quenched his thirst with two bottles of Hazebrouck beer. He had also a little brandy, and pocketed the flask, for which the landlord refused all payment. Then, feeling a giant refreshed, he sallied into the street.
“I’m off to look for your Provost,” he said. “If ye have ony mair trouble, ye’ll find me at the Toun Hall.”
A shell had plumped into the middle of the causeway, and the place was empty. Private Galbraith, despising shells, swaggered up the open, his disreputable kilt swinging about his putteeless legs, the remnant of a bonnet set well on the side of his shaggy red head, and the light of battle in his eyes. For once he was arrayed on the side of the angels, and the thought encouraged him mightily. The brandy had fired his imagination.
Adventure faced him at the next corner. A woman was struggling with two men—a slim pale girl with dark hair. No sound came from her lips, but her eyes were bright with terror. Galbraith started to run, shouting sound British oaths. The men let the woman go, and turned to face him. One had a pistol, and for the second time that day a bullet just missed its mark. An instant later a clean bayonet thrust had ended the mortal career of the marksman, and the other had taken to his heels.
“I’ll learn thae lads to be sae free wi’ their popguns,” said the irate soldier. “Haud up, Mem. It’s a’ by wi’ noo. Losh! The wumman’s fentit!”
Private Galbraith was as shy of women as of his Commanding Officer, and he had not bargained for this duty. She was clearly a lady from her dress and appearance, and this did not make it easier. He supported her manfully, addressing to her the kind of encouragements which a groom gives to a horse. “Canny now, Mem. Haud up! Ye’ve no cause to be feared.”
Then he remembered the brandy in his pocket, and with much awkwardness managed to force some drops between her lips. To his vast relief she began to come to. Her eyes opened and stared uncomprehendingly at her preserver. Then she found her voice.
“Thank God, the British have come back!” she said in excellent English.
“No, Mem; not yet. It’s just me, Private Galbraith, C Company, 3rd Battalion, Lennox Highlanders. Ye keep some bad lots in this toun.”
“Alas! what can we do? The place is full of spies, and they will stir up the dregs of the people and make Ypres a hell. Oh, why did the British go? Our good men are all with the army, and there are only old folk and wastrels left.”
“Rely upon me, Mem,” said Galbraith stoutly. “I was just settin’ off to find your Provost.”
She puzzled at the word, and then understood.
“He has gone!” she cried. “The Maire went to Dunkirk a week ago, and there is no authority in Ypres.”
“Then we’ll make yin. Here’s the minister. We’ll speir at him.”
An old priest, with a lean, grave face, had come up.
“Ah, Mam’selle Omèrine,” he cried, “the devil in our city is unchained. Who is this soldier?”
The two talked in French, while Galbraith whistled and looked at the sky. A shrapnel shell was bursting behind the cathedral, making a splash of colour in the November fog. Then the priest spoke in careful and constrained English.
“There is yet a chance for a strong man. But he must be very strong. Mam’selle will summon her father, Monsieur le Procureur, and we will meet at the Mairie. I will guide you there, mon brave.”
The Grande Place was deserted, and in the middle there was a new gaping shell-hole. At the door of a great building, which Galbraith assumed to be the Town Hall, a feeble old porter was struggling with a man. Galbraith scragged the latter and pitched him into the shell-hole. There was a riot going on in a café on the far side which he itched to have a hand in, but he postponed that pleasure to a more convenient season.
Twenty minutes later, in a noble room with frescoed and tapestried walls, there was a strange conference. The priest was there, and Galbraith, and Mam’selle Omèrine, and her father, M. St. Marais. There was a doctor too, and three elderly citizens, and an old warrior who had left an arm on the Yser. Galbraith took charge, with Mam’selle as his interpreter, and in half an hour had constituted a Committee of Public Safety. He had nervous folk to deal with.
“The Germans may enter at any moment, and then we will all be hanged,” said one.
“Nae doot,” said Galbraith; “but ye needna get your throats cut afore they come.”
“The city is full of the ill-disposed,” said another. “The Boches have their spies in every alley. We who are so few cannot control them.”
“If it’s spies,” said Galbraith firmly, “I’ll take on the job my lone. D’ye think a terrier dowg’s feared
