He glanced at me out of his near-sighted eyes, dropped the point of his sword to the stone floor, and slowly caressed his small, blond mustache.
“How many troops passed through here yesterday morning?” he asked.
“There was artillery, was there not?”
I only looked at him.
“Do you hear?” he repeated, sharply. “You are a prisoner, and I am questioning you.”
“You have that useless privilege,” I observed.
“If you are insolent I will have you shot!” he retorted, staring haughtily at me.
I glanced out of the window.
There was a pause; the hand of the Countess de Vassart trembled on my shoulder.