The platoon-officer ordered his men at rest and sent for his Captain.
“Prisoners, you may sing,” he said.
They heard the voices of the gathering in the street as Poltneck sang on, and presently the clatter of a sword in the stairway. A young officer, not the Captain, appeared. There was a quick appeal in the veteran's deference and his whisper. The old head bowed affectionately, too, as to a son of finer blood than he.
“Two American correspondents,—these two,” he reported. “The others are of the hospital service of the enemy.”
Poltneck had finished.
“Why are you here?” the officer asked.
“They were at work all night,” said Peter, “and were here for a little rest. The change this morning was effected before they were aware. We were helping.
“You were helping?” the officer repeated.
“There has been much to do in the hospitals. We have been in Judenbach—this is the fourth day.”
“We will look at your passports—yours and this gentleman's—”