His fall was a short one. Directly beneath the skylight was a bed, and on the bed a fat Austrian infantry captain. Barney lit upon the pit of the captain’s stomach. With a howl of pain the officer catapulted Barney to the floor. There were three other beds in the room, and in each bed one or two other officers. Before the American could regain his feet they were all sitting on him—all except the infantry captain. He lay shrieking and cursing in a painful attempt to regain his breath, every atom of which Barney had knocked out of him.
The officers sitting on Barney alternately beat him and questioned him, interspersing their interrogations with lurid profanity.
“If you will get off of me,” at last shouted the American, “I shall be glad to explain—and apologize.”
They let him up, scowling ferociously. He had promised to explain, but now that he was confronted by the immediate necessity of an explanation that would prove at all satisfactory as to how he happened to be wandering around the rooftops of Burgova, he discovered that his powers of invention were entirely inadequate. The need for explaining, however, was suddenly removed. A shadow fell upon them from above, and as they glanced up Barney saw the figure of an officer surrounded by several soldiers looking down upon him.
“Ah, you have him!” cried the newcomer in evident satisfaction. “It is well. Hold him until we descend.”
A moment later he and his escort had dropped through the broken skylight to the floor beside them.
“Who is the mad man?” cried the captain who had broken Barney’s fall. “The assassin! He tried to murder me.”
“I cannot doubt it,” replied the officer who had just descended, “for the fellow is no other than Stefan Drontoff, the famous Serbian spy!”
“Himmel!” ejaculated the officers in chorus. “You have done a good day’s work, lieutenant.”
“The firing squad will do a better work in a few minutes,” replied the lieutenant, with a grim pointedness that took Barney’s breath away.