Armitage lighted a pipe at the mantel, readjusted the bandage on his arm, and laughed aloud as he looked upon the huge figure of the Servian standing beside the sober little cavalryman.
“Oscar, there are certainly giants in these days, and we have caught one. You will please see that the cylinder of your revolver is in good order and prepare to act as clerk of our court-martial. If the prisoner moves, shoot him.”
He spoke these last words very deliberately in German, and the Servian’s small eyes blinked his comprehension. Armitage sat down on the writing-table, with his own revolver and the prisoner’s knives and pistol within reach of his available hand. A smile of amusement played over his face as he scrutinized the big body and its small, bullet-like head.
“He is a large devil,” commented Oscar.
“He is large, certainly,” remarked Armitage. “Give him a chair. Now,” he said to the man in deliberate German, “I shall say a few things to you which I am very anxious for you to understand. You are a Servian.”
The man nodded.
“Your name is Zmai Miletich.”
The man shifted his great bulk uneasily in his chair and fastened his lusterless little eyes upon Armitage.
“Your name,” repeated Armitage, “is Zmai Miletich; your home is, or was, in the village of Toplica, where you were a blacksmith until you became a thief. You are employed as an assassin by two gentlemen known as Chauvenet and Durand—do you follow me?”
The man was indeed following him with deep engrossment. His narrow forehead was drawn into minute wrinkles; his small eyes seemed to recede into his head; his great body turned uneasily.