"Yes, yes!" agreed a voice in good English, over his shoulder; "who will ever realize the misery of that boy?"
Fitzgerald at once recognized his jousting opponent of the previous hour. Further, this second appearance refreshed his memory. He knew now where he had met the man; he even recalled his name.
"Are you not Karl Breitmann?" he asked with directness.
"Yes. And you are—let me think. Yes; I have it. You are the
American correspondent, Fitzgerald."
"And we met in Macedonia during the Greek war."
"Right. And you and I, with a handful of other scribblers, slept that night under the same tent."
"By George!"
"I did not recall you when we bumped a while ago; but once I had gone by you, your face became singularly familiar."
"Funny, isn't it?" And Fitzgerald took hold of the extended hand.
"The sight of these toys always gets into my heart."
"Into mine also. Who can say what might have been had they not crushed out the great spirit lying dormant in his little soul? I saw Bernhardt and Coquelin recently in L'Aiglon. Ah, but they play it! It drove me here to-day. But this three-cornered hat holds me longest," with a quick gesture toward the opposite wall. "Can't you see the lean face under it, the dark eyes, the dark hair falling upon his collar? What thoughts have run riot under this piece of felt? The brain, the brain! A lieutenant at this time; a short, wiry, cold-blooded youngster, but dreaming the greatest dream in the world!"