He went into the bedroom and sat down on the bed's edge. His little, pale eyes wandered about the white room; the murmur of voices below was audible all the while.
After a few moments' patient waiting, his gaze rested again on Madam Death, squatting there with wings sloped, and the skull and bones staring at him from her head and distended abdomen.
After all there was an odd resemblance between himself and Madam Death. He had been born to fulfill one function, it appeared. So had she. And now, in his case as in hers, death was immediately to follow. This was sentiment, not science—the blind lobe of the German brain balancing grotesquely the reasoning lobe.
The voices below had ceased. Presently he heard a cautious step on the stair.
He had a little pill-box in his pocket. Methodically, without haste, he drew it out, chose[pg 301] one white pellet, and, holding it between his bony thumb and forefinger, listened.
Yes, somebody was coming up the stairs, very careful to make no sound.
Well—there were various ways for a Death's Head Hussar to die for his War Lord. All were equally laudable. God—the God of Germany—the celestial friend and comrade of his War Lord—would presently correct him if he was transgressing military discipline or the etiquette of Kultur. As for the levelled rifles of the execution squad, he preferred another way.... This way!...
His eyes were already glazing when the burly form of Sticky Smith filled the doorway.
He looked down at Madam Death under the tumbler beside him, then lifted his head and gazed at Smith with blinded eyes.