“Herr Major, we are herein billeted,” stuttered the corporal.
“Be off, I tell you, and take these Belgian swine with you! I make my quarters here to-night.”
Joos, of course, he recognised; and the miller said, with some dignity, that the gentlemen would be made as comfortable as his resources permitted, but he must remain in his own house.
The fat man stared at him, as though such insolence were unheard-of. “Here,” he roared to the corporal, “pitch this old hog into the Meuse. He annoys me.”
Meanwhile, one of the younger officers, a strapping Westphalian, lurched toward Irene. She did not try to avoid him, thinking, perhaps, that a passive attitude was advisable. He caught her by the waist, and guffawed to his companions, “Didn’t I offer to bet you fellows that Busch never made a mistake about a woman? Who’d have dreamed of finding a beauty like this one in a rotten old mill?”
The Bavarians had collected their rifles and sidearms, and were going out sullenly. Each of the officers carried a sword and revolver.
Irene saw that Dalroy had risen in his corner. She wrenched herself free. “How am I to prepare supper for you gentlemen if you bother me in this way?” she demanded tartly.
“Behave yourself, Fritz,” puffed the major. “Is that your idea of keeping your word? Mama, if she is discreet, will go to bed, and the young ones will eat with us.—Open that case of wine, orderly. I’m thirsty.—The girls will have a drink too. Cooking is warm work.—Hallo! What the devil! Kaporal, didn’t you hear my order?”
Dalroy grabbed Joos, who was livid with rage. The two girls were safe for the hour, and must endure the leering of four tipsy scoundrels. A row at the moment would be the wildest folly.
“March!” he said gruffly. “The oberleutnant doesn’t want us here.”