“Two traitors,” he said; “the other one. You said—you said—you said—I was one.”
“Indeed,” I said, “I am not burdening my mind with the names of traitors and if I named one it must have been in anger. As for you, I’ll not be your judge—so sit down. You are tired and——”
“I’ve known a night like this before,” he said, clutching the chair and gulping in the labor of his effort to be calm and rational; “I am glad on account of it—the rain—because—it—it—reminds me. You are a coward if you are afraid of a storm—you—are—scouts—the—they——” and his voice trailed away.
“Shh,” I said. “You must be quiet I will tell you the other name——”
“Yes,” he said eagerly.
“It was a young fellow who lived in my town in America and came over here and after a while he got mixed up with the Germans somehow. Slade was his name—Tom Slade; and I’m sorry I mentioned it before. He’s dead now——”
“Say his name again,” he interrupted, trembling like a leaf.
“Slade—Tom Slade.”
“Tomasso—not Tasso,” he cried; “that is what he used to call me.”
I thought his wits were wandering now, so I spoke soothingly, telling him again to sit down. But he clutched my arm and looked at me like a wild man. There was a light in his eyes, too, which I had never seen before. And if he lacked in will and had no power to speak connectedly, a certain fine abandon came to him which took me by storm. I knew, of course, that his tirade was but the reaction of his nervous strain and mental hallucinations, but some things that he said puzzled and rather startled me.