Hertz gave a cry of warning and sprang aside, tripped on his spur, and sprawled in the deep dust; while Purkitz’s wild jump landed him with both feet on his superior’s back, whence he slid off and brought up on Hertz’s head, thereby materially augmenting the fine flow of super-heated language that was bubbling from the Captain’s dirt-filled mouth—nor did the loud guffaw and the shrieks of feminine laughter, that came from the house, serve to reduce either the temperature or the volume.
Meanwhile, the cause of it all—a slender, sinuous woman, black gowned and black veiled—sat the big horse motionless and silent, waiting for the human tangle to unloose itself.
Coated with dust—his uniform unrecognizable, his face smeared and dirty—Hertz scrambled up.
“What in hell do you——a woman!” he ended, and stood staring.
“Yes, my man, a woman,” said she, “and one very sorry for your fall—you are the landlord, I presume.”
Lieutenant Purkitz gave a shout, and leaned against the gate.
“Landlord!” he gasped, “landlord!—that face—oh, that face!” and went off into a fit of suppressed mirth.
The woman looked at him and then at Hertz, and though the thick veil hid her features completely, there was no doubt of her irritation.
The Captain bowed. “Madame will pardon the ill manners of my clownish servant,” he said, indicating Purkitz; “I am Captain Hertz, of Her Highness’ Third Lancers. Yonder is the landlord; permit me to call him.”
She leaned down and offered him her hand.