"The Château de Nesville?" asked Marche, astonished; "are you Lorraine?"
"Yes! I'm Lorraine. Didn't you know it?"
"Lorraine de Nesville?" he repeated, curiously.
"Yes! How dares that German to come into my woods and make maps and carry them back across the Rhine! I have seen him before--twice--drawing and measuring along the park wall. I told my father, but he thinks only of his balloons. I have seen others, too--other strange men in the chase--always measuring or staring about or drawing. Why? What do Germans want of maps of France? I thought of it all day--every day; I watched, I listened in the forest. And do you know what I think?"
"What?" asked Marche.
She pushed back her splendid hair and faced him.
"War!" she said, in a low voice.
"War?" he repeated, stupidly. She stretched out an arm towards the east; then, with a passionate gesture, she stepped to his side.
"War! Yes! War! War! War! I cannot tell you how I know it--I ask myself how--and to myself I answer: 'It is coming! I, Lorraine, know it!'"
A fierce light flashed from her eyes, blue as corn-flowers in July.
"It is in dreams I see and hear now--in dreams; and I see the vineyards black with helmets, and the Moselle redder than the setting sun, and over all the land of France I see bayonets, moving, moving, like the Rhine in flood!"
The light in her eyes died out; she straightened up; her lithe young body trembled.
"I have never before told this to any one," she said, faintly; "my father does not listen when I speak. You are Jack Marche, are you not?"
He did not answer, but stood awkwardly, folding and unfolding the crumpled maps.
"You are the vicomte's nephew--a guest at the Château Morteyn?" she asked.
"Yes," said Marche.
"Then you are Monsieur Jack Marche?"
He took off his shooting-cap and laughed frankly. "You find me carrying a gun on your grounds," he said; "I'm sure you take me for a poacher."
She glanced at his leggings.
"Now," he began, "I ask permission to explain; I am afraid that you will be inclined to doubt my explanation. I almost doubt it myself, but here it is. Do you know that there are wolves in these woods?"
"Wolves?" she repeated, horrified.
"I saw one; I followed it to this carrefour."
She leaned against a tree; her hands fell to her sides.
There was a silence; then she said, "You will not believe what I am going to say--you will call it superstition--perhaps stupidity. But do you know that wolves have never appeared along the Moselle except before a battle? Seventy years ago they were seen before the battle of Colmar. That was the last time. And now they appear again."