"It is that you shall not pay me for my labor."
"But, sir, it is impossible for me to—"
Madame von Lutzow laid her hand softly on his shoulder. "I am sure you do not wish to offend this excellent man?" she whispered.
"It is impossible for me to take pay for a favor which I do to one of my future comrades," said M. Martin. "I suppose that is what you wanted to say, and you are right. But if you insist on indemnifying me, there is another way for you to do so."
"Pray tell me."
"You sang two verses, which sounded so bold and fresh that they touched my heart. Was that the whole song, or are there any more verses?"
"No, sir, they are the two last; three others precede them."
"Well, comrade," said M. Martin, gayly, "if you insist on my doing my last tailoring job for you, then sing me the other three."
Korner glanced inquiringly at Madame Lutzow. "I do not know," he said, hesitatingly, "if madame will permit it?"
Madame von Lutzow smiled. "I not only permit, but pray you to sing," she said. "Give us the whole song, and let us all join in the refrain. Come, brave soldiers of the future! cast aside your work, form in line, and sing with us the song of the Black Riflemen!"