"And mine's John Scott," said John, as he walked straight ahead.
They passed through a wood and into another field, where a large body of Prussian cavalry was waiting. A tall man, built heavily, stood beside a horse, watching a distant corner of the battle through glasses. John knew that uncompromising figure at once. It was von Boehlen.
"A prisoner, Captain," said von Arnheim, saluting respectfully.
Von Boehlen turned slowly, and a malicious light leaped in his eyes when he saw John on foot before him, and wholly in his power.
"And so," he said, "it's young Scott of the hotel in Dresden and of the wireless station, and you've come straight into my hands!"
The whimsical humor which sometimes seized John when he was in the most dangerous situation took hold of him again. It was not humor exactly, but it was the innate desire to make the best of a bad situation.
"I'm in your hands," he replied, "but I didn't walk willingly into 'em. Your lieutenant, von Arnheim here, and his men brought me on the points of their lances. I'm quite willing to go away again."
Von Boehlen recognized the spirit in the reply and the malice departed from his own eyes. Yet he asked sternly:
"Why do you put on a French uniform and meddle in a quarrel not your own?"
"I've made it my own. I take the chances of war."