"I—I myself," cried François hotly,—"I am nobler, braver, greater than this beast you call master."
"Hold your tongue," said a third German, in a kindlier tone than the others had employed. "It can do you no good to talk like this. Give in, my brave lads. Tell everything. I know what is before you if you refuse to-day,—and I tremble. He will surely break you to-day."
They were crossing the narrow road.
"He is your master,—not ours," said François calmly.
Louis walked ahead, erect, his jaw set. The blood leaped in
François' veins. Ah, what a brave, strong fellow his brother was!
"He is the greatest commander in all the German armies," boasted the burly sergeant. "And, young frog-eater, he commands the finest troops in the world. Do you know that there are ten thousand iron crosses in this God-appointed corps! Have a care how you speak of our general. He is the Emperor's right hand. He is the chosen man of the Emperor."
"And of God," added another.
"Bah!" cried François, snapping his fingers scornfully. "His is worth no more than that to me!"
François was going to his death. His chest swelled.
"You fool. He is to the Emperor worth more than an entire army corps,—yes, two of them. The Emperor would sooner lose a hundred thousand men than this single general."