"You are Belgian?" inquired Guild pleasantly.
It was a characteristic reply. A Belgian does not call himself a Belgian. Always he designates his nationality by naming his birthplace--as though the world must know that it is in Belgium.
"And those people over there by the sheep fold?" asked Guild.
"Our men--some of them--from Ixl, from the Black Erenz and the White, from Lesse--one from Liège. And there is one, a stranger."
"He says his heart is with us. It is mostly that way in Moresnet."
"In Moresnet ten per cent of the people are Germans in sympathy," remarked Guild. "What is this man? A miner?"
"Yes, Monsieur," said the honest forester, simply.
Guild laid one hand on the man's broad shoulder:
"Michaud," he said quietly, "I know I am among friends if you say I am. I mean friends to Belgium."
The dark eyes of the tall forester seemed to emit a sudden sparkle in the dusk.
"Michaud, my name, in America is Guild. My name in Belgian is Kervyn Gueldres. Judge, then, whether I am a friend to your country and your king."
"Gueldres!" whispered the forester, rigid. "Kervyn of Gueldres, Comte d'Yvoir, Hastiere----"
"It is so written on the rolls of the Guides."
"Two years with the colours. I am here to report for duty. Do you feel safe to trust me now, Michaud, my friend?"
The tall, straight forester uncovered. "Trust a Gueldres! My God!"
"Put on your hat," said Guild, bluntly, "I am American when I deal with men!"
"'Monsieur' will do. Give me your hand! That is as it should be. We understand each other I think. Now tell me very clearly exactly what happened this morning on the hill meadows of the Paillard estate."
"Pardon! Monsieur Guild, the Grey Uhlans rode over the border and laughed at the gendarme on duty. Straight they made for our hill meadows, riding at ease and putting their horses to the hedges. Schultz, our herdsman, saw them trotting like wolves of the Black Erenz, ran to the wooden fence to close the gate, but their lances rattling on the pickets frightened him.
"They herded the cattle while their officers sat looking on by the summer fold.
"'Do not these cattle and sheep belong to the Paillard estate?' asks one of the officers of Schultz. And, 'Very well then!' says he; 'we are liquidating an old account with Monsieur Paillard!'