Hermann sat down on the arm of his chair.

“Mike, I’m going back to Germany to-day,” he said.  “Now do you understand?  I’m German.”

“You mean that Germany is at the back of this?”

“It is obvious, isn’t it?  Those demands couldn’t have been made without the consent of Austria’s ally.  And they won’t be granted.  Servia will appeal to Russia.  And . . . and then God knows what may happen.  In the event of that happening, I must be in my Fatherland ready to serve, if necessary.”

“You mean you think it possible you will go to war with Russia?” asked Michael.

“Yes, I think it possible, and, if I am right, if there is that possibility, I can’t be away from my country.”

“But the Emperor, the fire-engine whom you said would quench any conflagration?”

“He is away yachting.  He went off after the visit of the British fleet to Kiel.  Who knows whether before he gets back, things may have gone too far?  Can’t you see that I must go?  Wouldn’t you go if you were me?  Suppose you were in Germany now, wouldn’t you hurry home?”

Michael was silent, and Hermann spoke again.

“And if there is trouble with Russia, France, I take it, is bound to join her.  And if France joins her, what will England do?”

The great shadow of the approaching storm fell over Michael, even as outside the sultry stillness of the morning grew darker.

“Ah, you think that?” asked Michael.

Hermann put his hand on Michael’s shoulder.

“Mike, you’re the best friend I have,” he said, “and soon, please God, you are going to marry the girl who is everything else in the world to me.  You two make up my world really—­you two and my mother, anyhow.  No other individual counts, or is in the same class.  You know that, I expect.  But there is one other thing, and that’s my nationality.  It counts first.  Nothing, nobody, not even Sylvia or my mother or you can stand between me and that.  I expect you know that also, for you saw, nearly a year ago, what Germany is to me.  Perhaps I may be quite wrong about it all—­about the gravity, I mean, of the situation, and perhaps in a few days I may come racing home again.  Yes, I said ‘home,’ didn’t I?  Well, that shows you just how I am torn in two.  But I can’t help going.”

Hermann’s hand remained on his shoulder gently patting it.  To Michael the world, life, the whole spirit of things had suddenly grown sinister, of the quality of nightmare.  It was true that all the ground of this ominous depression which had darkened round him, was conjectural and speculative, that diplomacy, backed by the horror of war which surely all civilised nations and responsible govermnents must share, had, so far from saying its last, not yet said its first word; that the wits of all the Cabinets of Europe were at this moment only just beginning to stir themselves so as to secure a peaceful solution; but, in spite of this, the darkness and the nightmare grew in intensity.  But as to Hermann’s determination to go to Germany, which made this so terribly real, since it was beginning to enter into practical everyday life, he had neither means nor indeed desire to combat it.  He saw perfectly clearly that Hermann must go.