Chapter 7
Big Belt stood before a man of his own size—Lornievitch, the Commander of commanders, Himself.
It was night. Boylan had plunged into a new vat of power, and persuaded Dabnitz to furnish an escort from Judenbach, four miles to the east to the main headquarters of the Galician army.
Rows of sleepy stenographers in the outer room of a broad shepherd's house in a little hill village—a web of wires on the low ceiling, lanterns, candles, field 'phones and telegraph tickers, none altogether subsided; as much routine as in the management of a state—the center of this monster battle-line—to say nothing of the spectacular.
The two men now filled a small inner room. Lornievitch spoke English—an English much to the caller's liking. Perhaps it was the bond of bulk between them.
“Well, and so you are Boylan of the Rhodes?—what is it, Mr. Boylan? We are very busy.”
“I have a young friend of The States” he began and talked for three minutes—talked until Lornievitch squirmed and his aides hurried forward ready to assist.
“And what does Kohlvihr say?”
“I had to speak to him through an interpreter. I could not get the answer I wanted. He has had a terrible day. The life of one American is too small for discussion there—”
“And you have come here to me. Meanwhile, on the wire is the young man's case—a love affair with a revolutionist—and a sort of be-damned to the Russian army. You are a strong man, doubtless a brave one—”