CHAPTER XXII.
A FORETASTE OF TERROR.
In the grounds adjoining the barracks at Calais paced a young officer. He had a noble, thoughtful face, just such a face as Rembrandt delighted to portray. He was strongly built but thin of flesh. A nascent force characterized his every movement. To be near him was like coming within the radius of a strong electric current.
There was little to occupy the attention of the garrison in this sleepy old town. Colonel Reynold Van Straalen caught himself in the act of suppressing a yawn.
“Things are growing intolerable,” he said to himself. “We shall soon be useless ships if we are always to ride at anchor. Would that I could hear from home.”
Some one beckoned to him from the barracks. “There is a stranger who wishes to speak with you,” said the guard with a salute.
An elderly man in humble apparel stood before the young officer.
“Colonel Van Straalen does not remember me, I see,” said the stranger. “It is no wonder, for I
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