"Bad luck, old chap," he said in English, "but no reflection on you. Just bad luck, bad, very bad! We Germans usually have an ally in God. But the trinity is incomplete without luck."
Guild said in a low voice: "I am really sorry, von Reiter. I hope you will come out all right. God knows I bear you no ill will."
"Many thanks. I shall come out all right. There is much work to do." A ghost of the ironical smile touched his feverish lips again. "And much work to be done after this business in Europe is settled.... I mean in America. She must pay her reckoning. She must settle with us Germans.... I wish it might come soon—-now!—while their present administration remains—while yet this dull President and his imbecile and grotesque cabinet ministers are in power.... I beg your pardon—seeing you in that uniform made me forget that you are also Mr. Guild."
But the irony in his wearied eyes made it very plain that he had not forgotten.
"Karen?" he said presently. She leaned forward in her chair beside him.
"It was just bad luck, very bad luck," he muttered; "but yours is luck"—he turned his dulled eyes toward Guild—"luck to be envied.... Some day I hope it may be—the hand."
"It is now, if you wish," said Guild.
The other shook his head: "Too soon, too soon," he muttered. "Even a German officer has his—limits. Between you and my luck I'm in a bad way—a very bad mess."
Karen bent over his hand and touched it with her lips.
The fever was gaining; he began to roll his blond head from side to side, muttering of love and luck and of the glory of God and the German Empire. A slight smile remained on his lips.