“Whatever he may have done, he, and my cutter, too, are safe, and we shall see them back in three days,” he reiterated, with such quiet emphasis, and with such a strangely confident, contented look in his eyes, that I also felt convinced the vessels would, as he said, turn up safely.
We sat silent for some minutes, watching the sea, and noting how quickly the wind was falling, when presently my comrade turned to me.
“You asked me why I did not try to make the German head station in Blanche Bay, after my crew were killed,” he said. “Well, I'll tell you. I am frightened of no man living, but I happened to hear the name of the manager there—a-Captain Sternberg, an ex-captain of the German navy. He and I served together in the same ship—and I am a deserter from the German service.”
I was astonished. “You!” I exclaimed; “surely you are not a German?”
“Indeed, I am,” he replied, “and if I fell into the hands or the German naval authorities, or any German Consul, or other official anywhere, I should have but a short time in this world.”
“Why, what could they do?”
“Send me home to be tried—and shot.”
“Surely they cannot shoot a man for desertion in the German navy.”
“There is something beyond desertion in my case— I killed an officer. Sternberg knows the whole story, and though as a man and a gentleman he would feel for me, he would have no hesitation in arresting me and sending me home in irons, if he could get me. And he could not fail to recognise me, although eight and twenty years have passed since he last saw me.”
“But he is not an Imperial officer now,” I remarked.