Under the window strident Prussian bugles were blowing a harsh summons; the young officer stepped to the loop-hole and looked out, then hastily removed his helmet and thrust his blond head through the smoky aperture. “March those prisoners in below!” he shouted down.
Then he withdrew his head, put on his polished helmet of black leather, faced with the glittering Prussian eagle, and tightened the gold-scaled cheek-guard.
A moment later came a trample of feet on the landing outside, the door was flung open, and three prisoners were brutally pushed into the room.
I tried to turn and look at them; they stood in the dusk near the bed, but I could only make out that one was a Turco, his jacket in rags, his canvas breeches covered with mud.
Again the lieutenant came to the loop-hole and glanced out, then shook his head, motioning the soldiers back.
“It is too high and the arc of fire too limited,” he said, shortly. “Detail four men to hold the stairs, ten men and a sergeant in the room below, and you’d better take your prisoners down there. Bayonet that Turco tiger if he shows his teeth again. March!”
As the prisoners filed out I turned once more and thought I recognized Salah Ben-Ahmed in the 78 dishevelled Turco, but could not be certain, so disfigured and tattered the soldier appeared.
“Here, you hussar prisoner!” cried the lieutenant, pointing at me with his white-gloved finger, “turn your head and busy yourself with what concerns you. And you, madame,” he added, pompously, “see that you give us no trouble and stay in this room until you have permission to leave.”
“Are—are you speaking to me, monsieur?” asked the Countess, amazed. Then she rose, exasperated.
“Your insolence disgraces your uniform,” she said. “Go to your French prisoners and learn the rudiments of courtesy!”