“King-God, Excellence,” replied Sergeant Schultz gravely.
“This fellow then is an apostate priest, nicht wahr?”
The sergeant noticed the movement of one of the sentry moustaches. A twitch of the lips recognized his superior’s pleasantry.
“Ja, Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer stuck the cigar into the corner of his mouth and regarded idly the dumb figure on the floor against the wall.
“We must have the Wongolo country, c’est entendu. Now what’s your opinion of the method, sergeant?”
“With due deference, Excellence,” responded Sergeant Schultz, “I propose that we advance and bring them to subjection in the usual manner.”
Zu Pfeiffer fingered a ring and stared out into the yellow glare.
“Nein,” he said at length, meditatively, removed the cigar from his lips and delicately knocked off the ash. “Circumstances alter cases. That method is too expensive. Son Altesse cannot afford the blood of the Fatherland in return for such ignoble carcasses. We—the price paid in the Herrero campaign was insupportable.”
“Pardon, Excellence, but Treitschke said——”