"That is true, the cattle. They think that their work is over. I must certainly go, Sadi—and take you with me."
"Not so, Ludenmayer; I must have nothing to do with it. Besides, I am very comfortable here."
"For the time being, yes. But if anything should happen to me, they would assuredly hang you, friend Sadi."
"I will take my chances, Ludenmayer. Remember, it is you alone that I wish to serve. They will at least respect your orders."
"Give them your word to be silent, and they will let you go away at once. There is nothing easier, Sadi."
"For a Prussian, perhaps—for me, no. We have been comrades—let that suffice, Ludenmayer. A wise man would go at once."
The eyes of the two met, and the Prussian seemed to read something of this odd fellow's purpose in his dilated pupils and the stern, set expression of his mouth. It came to Ludenmayer that he and the gregarious dozen of spies with him were already in a trap from which haste alone would save them. This simple old fiddler knew much more than he would tell. Ludenmayer, trained to selfishness by his occupation, cared nothing for that which happened to the others if he could save his own skin. He was grateful to Sadi, and he wrung his hand.
"Well," he said, in a louder voice, for all to hear, "I must certainly be off, but I shall not be away long. Do not spare the bottle, Sadi. And mind you treat him well," he added, turning to the company, "for he is my guest."
The men stood to the salute mechanically, and the sentry in the passage whispering that the road was clear, Ludenmayer left the cellar with a last word in Sadi's ear.
"Take care of yourself," he said; "they are in an ugly mood."