"But he went away, Tanya Korasov--he did not stay----" broke in Ivanitch excitedly.
The American rose from his chair, mystified.
"As I shall do now, Monsieur, if you will permit me----"
He took a pace toward a door which seemed to lead toward the front of the house, but the girl stood before him and faced her compatriot, who had sank again in his chair, his head deep in his shoulders.
"For shame, Kirylo Ivanitch," she said in a spirited voice. "For shame! That you should be so inhospitable! The man is dead upon his feet and you send him out into the night--to be interned perhaps tomorrow!"
"An escaping prisoner! A slave!" He rose from his chair, brushing his hair back with a wild gesture. "You were a slave, were you not--a slave to the Germans? Answer me."
Had the man suddenly gone mad? Or was the brain of the Légionnaire suffering from a delusion of its own weariness? What was the meaning of this extraordinary conversation? What the significance of this sudden and strange hostility? And what difference could it make to this man Ivanitch whether he, Rowland, had been a slave or not?
The American shrugged and smiled again, more patiently.
"A slave?" he replied. "One might call it that. I worked like a dog upon a railroad. I was chained to the man next me, and would have been shot had I attempted resistance."
The result of this innocent explanation was still more surprising.