“Dü! wohen bist dü dann?”
“Aus München....”
From Munich. Munich! I passed the best days of my youth there. Its splendid life, the magic of its lakes, the first iridescent snows of the Tyrol reflecting in their dark waters, the intoxication of its music, Munich! the city of my dreams! The mystic grayish tints of the inns more smoky even than those of Auerbach but lighter, the impressive harmony of the statues, its incomparable museums, the June evenings on the Isar and the blue sunsets of the Propylées. Munich! And this man in rags, this tatterdemalion speaks to me of Munich.
“Well, Margis, are you wandering?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. As a matter of fact I was woolgathering.”
And I come back to cruel reality.
“Since you must return to the brigade at once, you can take this crowd to the provost. I’ll give you four men. That will be enough.”
“All right, Lieutenant, but I’ll not guarantee to deliver them whole. It’s a bad neighborhood. It rains shells.”
He looks at them and they are ready. All they have to do is to group themselves.
“Go ahead, au revoir,—and a safe return.”