The Frenchman's eyes looked pleased at the warmth of his welcome by the American, whose frank young face he was scanning with both liking and pity, but he cast a look at the sentry before he answered, "I think he will not object. We can at least wait until he does."
They entered Bob's room, where Bob drew forward the stool, reserving for himself the low table, which was solidly built of timber.
"I am Philippe Bertrand, Captain of French infantry," said his guest, seating himself and removing his cap from his black hair as he spoke. "May I ask your name and where you were taken?"
Bob willingly responded to the friendly inquiry, and for every word he spoke he had an interested listener. He told the Frenchman where he came from and the length of his service, finally asking, "Can you give me any idea of where we are, Captain?"
Bertrand pronounced a German name which meant nothing to Bob. The added information that the place was situated in Prussia made things a little clearer.
"How long have you been here, Captain?" he asked with an inward shudder.
"Six months," replied Bertrand, a shadow coming over his thin face. "Before that I was fighting since 1914 near the northern end of the British line in Flanders. That is how I learned English."
"But are you the only officer imprisoned here?" asked Bob. "There seem to be a great number of other prisoners."
"There are no other French or British officers here now. They have been transferred elsewhere. There were Russian officers next to me until last week, but they have been taken away. There was some rumor of an armistice signed between Russia and our enemies." He frowned, looking anxiously at Bob. "You have heard nothing of it?"