"Which of you is the alleged American?" said the lieutenant in hesitating but correct English.
The young man in knickerbockers rose from a brocaded armchair.
"Follow me. General von Reiter does you the honour to question you."
The young man looked the lieutenant straight in the eye and smiled, stiffly perhaps, because his face was still pallid and the breath of death still chilled it.
"The honour," he said in an agreeably modulated voice, "is General von Reiter's. But I fear he won't realize it."
"What's that!" said the lieutenant sharply.
But young Guild shrugged his shoulders. "You wouldn't understand either. Besides you are too talkative for an underling. Do your duty—if you know how."
"Swine of a Yankee," said the lieutenant, speaking slowly and with painful precision, "do you suppose you are in your own sty of a Republic? Silence! A Prussian officer commands you! March!"
Guild dropped his hands into the pockets of his belted jacket. "You little shrimp," he said good humouredly, and followed the officer, who had now drawn his sword.
Out into the hall they filed, across it to the closed door. The sentry on duty there opened it; the lieutenant, very red in the face, delivered his prisoner, then, at a nod from the grey-clad officer who was sitting behind a writing desk, saluted, faced about, and marched out. The door closed sharply behind him.