The enemy agent laughed coarsely. "Your Leutnant is no fool. A coward, yes; but, then, all Americans are cowards at heart, nein? Bring the flask here! Ach—be careful, you blundering eisel!"
The last sentence broke in a gasp from von Rath. He was not the only one to shout warning. Steve's fearful voice echoed his cry.
"Good Lord, Chuck, be careful! Don't drop that! We will all be—look out! Be care—"
The cold sweat of sudden fear broke on his forehead. Not fear of his foeman, but of what might now seize them all. Even as he shouted, the glass shattered upon the floor. From if rose a pale, chill, ominous mist. A sharp, unidentifiable odor assailed his nostrils; black vertigo staggered him. The world reeled and tumbled into wells of seething darkness; the darkness was peopled with gray, swirling phantasms; he sensed motion within and about him; a multitude of half-heard sounds rolled like surging waters past his ears. This for a fearful moment. Then:
"—ful!" he cried. "That's dangerous, Chuck—"
His hands groped forward, governed by an instinctive motion, to catch the falling flask. But, amazingly, they met and clutched nothing! More frightening still, the muscles of his well-knit, athletic body flamed with sudden agony, racked in protest as if they had been welded for months in a plaster cast.
Over straining sinews and bones that ached horribly, Lieutenant Stephen Duane had no more control than has a month old baby. With a gasp more of shock than of fear, he pitched headlong to his knees, his chest, his elbows.
He tried to roll, that his shoulders might break his fall, and succeeded in a measure, but concrete grated against one cheek painfully. The jolt shook him like the impact of a sledgehammer. He spat dry dust flavored with the warm, salty taste of blood and cried again:
"Chuck! Chuck, what—?"