"A hundred thousand men?" cried François, incredulously. "That is a great many men,—even Germans."
"Pigs," said Louis, between his teeth.
They now entered the little garden. The Prussian commander was eating his breakfast in the shelter of a tent. The day was young, yet the sun was hot. Papers and maps were strewn over the top of the long table at which he sat, gorging himself. The guard and the two prisoners halted a few paces away. The general's breakfast was not to be interrupted by anything so trivial as the affairs of Louis and François.
"And that ugly glutton is worth more than a hundred thousand men," mused François, eyeing him in wonder. "God, how cheap these boches must be."
Staff officers stood outside the tent, awaiting and receiving gruff orders from their superior. Between gulps he gave out almost unintelligible sounds, and one by one these officers, interpreting them as commands, saluted and withdrew.
François gazed as one fascinated. He WAS a great general, after all. Only a very great and powerful general could enjoy such respect, such servile obedience as he was receiving from these hulking brutes of men.
Directions were punctuated,—or rather indicated,—by the huge carving-knife with which the general slashed his meat. He pointed suddenly with the knife, and, as he did so, the officer at whom it was leveled, sprang into action, to do as he was bidden, as if the shining blade had touched his quivering flesh.
Suddenly the great general pushed his bench back from the table, slammed the knife and fork down among the platters, and barked:
"Well!"
His eyes were fastened upon the prisoners. The guards shoved them forward.