"Possibly. But not—for long!"
The voice stopped short. As von Herrnung took a step nearer to the stretcher, his toe stubbed against and caught in the strap of a leather case lying on the littered floor. He picked up the case and smiled as he drew out a costly pair of Zeiss binoculars. His own, though hailing from the Jena workshop, only magnified to 12x. These registered 25x. On the metal rim of the larger lense was engraved the style and title of the owner: "Capt. Rt. Hon. Viscount Norwater, Royal Bearskins Plain."
A find in the dual sense. He restored the binoculars to their case, unbuckled the strap and slipped it under his heavy bandolier of cartridges, hanging the case beside his own, loosened the upper stud-clips that fastened his goggled helmet, and pushed it back so as to reveal his whole face. The gaunt eyes were open, looking at him attentively. He asked them:
"May it not be that we have met before? In Paris, yes? On the night of the Grand Prix. At the Hotel Spitz, ja, ja, gewiss! A dinner given by Sir Thomas Brayham for Lady Wathe and a few friends. You were one of the friends. I another. How is the old woman, do you know?"
Kreutzdonnerwetter! what inconceivable insolence! The eyes looked through him as though he had not been there. His hard blue eyes, already injected with blood, grew savage, and a purplish tinge suffused his florid skin. He reflected an instant, pulled a capacious silver spirit-flask from the deep side-pocket of his pneumatic, half-filled the drinking cup that capped it, and knelt down beside the stretcher, saying quite pleasantly, in his gutturals:
"See, here is some capital Cognac. Let me give you a sip, eh? Then you will feel better." He poured a dram between the teeth, and waited through a spasm of coughing, wiped the blood and mucus from the gasping lips with a rag of the torn clothing, then pulled a stool from amongst the rubbish, sat down near the feet of the wounded man, facing him, and took a long pull of the belauded brandy from the neck of the big flask.
"That does more good than canteen coffee," he said, and sucked his red moustache appreciatively. He set down the flask on the floor between his feet, found his case, and carefully chose a cigar.
"A zigarre? No! You will, then, perhaps not object to my smoking? We of the Field Flight have to comfort ourselves with snuff when in the air. To burn tobacco and blaze up like a star-shell and come down like a charred rocket-stick, that is not at all agreeable or praktisch. Sapperlot! you are not a very amusing companion. Nevertheless, my fellow, I drink to your jolly good health!"
He knocked off the ash of his cigar, cleared his throat, and spat, just clearing Franky's shoulder. The flicker of anger in the sunken eyes brought a glitter of malice into his own. He sent out a long swaggering stream of smoke, and knocked the ash from his cigar with the little finger of his ringed left hand, continuing:
"You see, I have cut the long thumb-nail that amused you when we met in Paris. The Day has come—though you would not join me in drinking to its dawning!—and the German eagle has dipped his claws in English blood. We Prussians have beaten out the iron sceptre of World Power with giant blows upon the War Anvil, and the sun that never set upon the swanky British Empire, has already risen to find the Roast Beef of Old England in danger, and the Triple Entente a bankrupt syndicate." He shrugged and twisted his red moustache, tilted his big body sidewise, and spat at a carefully-calculated angle, missing the other shoulder of the victim as he pursued: