The Yellow Dove

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Transcriber’s note:

Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (italics).

THE YELLOW DOVE

[Illustration: “His blond hair disheveled, his shoulders coatless, Cyril emerged.”]

THE YELLOW DOVE

by

GEORGE GIBBS

Illustrated by the Author

[Illustration]

New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers

Copyright, 1915, By D. Appleton and Company

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE PRELUDE 1 I. SHELTERED PEOPLE 5 II. THE UNDERCURRENT 17 III. RICE-PAPERS 31 IV. DANGEROUS SECRETS 45 V. THE PURSUIT CONTINUES 55 VI. RIZZIO TAKES CHARGE 68 VII. AN INTRUDER 83 VIII. EVIDENCE 96 IX. THE VIKING’S TOWER 108 X. THE YELLOW DOVE 121 XI. VON STROMBERG 131 XII. HAMMERSLEY EXPLAINS 145 XIII. THE UNWILLING GUEST 157 XIV. VON STROMBERG CATECHISES 172 XV. THE INQUISITION 188 XVI. THE GENERAL PLAYS TO WIN 206 XVII. LINDBERG 221 XVIII. SUCCESS 243 XIX. THE CAVE ON THE THORWALD 260 XX. THE FIGHT IN THE CAVERN 275 XXI. HARE AND HOUNDS 289 XXII. FROM THE HEIGHTS 306 XXIII. HEADQUARTERS 320

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

“His blond hair disheveled, his shoulders coatless, Cyril emerged.” Frontispiece

FACING PAGE “‘Not that,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘for God’s sake--not that.’” 80

“Her lips ... were whispering words that she hoped could follow him into the distance.” 128

“The truth, and he becomes an honorable prisoner of war. Silence, and he is shot tomorrow. Speak.” 218

THE YELLOW DOVE

PRELUDE

Rifts of sullen gray in the dirty veil of vapor beyond the reaches of dunes, where the sea in long lines of white, like the ghostly hosts of lost regiments, clamored along the sand....

A soughing wind, a shrieking of sea-birds, audible in pauses between the faraway crackle of rifle-fire and the deep reverberations of artillery--familiar music to ears trained by long listening. A shrill scream of flying shrapnel, a distant crash and then a tense hush....

Silence--nearly, but not quite. A sound so small as to be almost lost in the echoes of the clamor, an impact upon the air like the tapping of the wings of an insect against one’s ear-drum, a persistent staccato note which no other noise could still, borne with curious distinctness upon some aërial current of the fog bank.

And yet this tiny sound had a strange effect upon the desolate scene, for in a moment, as if they had been sown with dragon’s teeth, the sand dunes suddenly vomited forth armed men who ran hither and thither, their hands to their ears, peering aloft as though trying to pierce the mystery of the skies.

“The blighter! It’s ’im agayn.”

“’Im! ’Oo’s ’im, I’d like to arsk?”

“Stow yer jaw, cawn’t yer ’ear? Ole Yaller-belly, agayn.”

The sounds were now clearly audible and to the south a series of rapid detonations shivered the air.

“There goes ‘Johnny look in the air.’ Cawn’t get ’im, though. ’Strewth! ’E’s a cool one--’e is!”

A hoarse order rang out from the trenches behind them--and the men ran for cover. The fog lifted a little and a shaft of light touched the leaden gray of the sea like the sheen on a dirty gun-barrel. The nearer high-angle guns were speaking now--fruitlessly, for the sounds seemed to come from directly overhead. The fog lifted again and a shaft of pale sunlight shot across the line of entrenchments.

“There ’e is, not wastin’ no time--’e ayn’t.”

“Yus. But they’re arfter ’im. There comes hyviashun. O ’ell!”