“I beg yer pardon,” said a soldier with his hat, that had a band, in his hand. “Are you the American?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the woman down there said she thought your papers wasn't in very good order.” The man stammered with embarrassment.
Their eyes met.
“No, I'm a deserter,” said Andrews.
The M. P. snatched for his whistle and blew it hard. There was an answering whistle from outside the window.
“Get your stuff together.”
“I have nothing.”
“All right, walk downstairs slowly in front of me.”
Outside the windmill was turning, turning, against the piled white clouds of the sky.