"But your lips are bleeding."
"Are they?" She put a trembling hand to them. "He—he struck me.… That's nothing… But you—you have saved me—from God only knows what!"
"I have! From him?" demanded Kurt. "What is he?"
"He's a German!" returned Lenore, and red burned out of the white of her cheeks. "Secret agent—I.W.W.!… Plotter against my father's life!… Oh, he knocked father off the car—dragged him!… He ran the car away—with me—forced me back—he struck me!… Oh, if I were a man!"
Nash responded with a passion that made his face drip with sweat and distort into savage fury of defeat and hate.
"You two-faced cat!" he hissed. "You made love to me! You fooled me! You let me—"
"Shut up!" thundered Kurt. "You German dog! I can't murder you, because I'm American. Do you get that? But I'll beat you within an inch of your life!"
As Kurt bent over to lay down the rifle, Nash darted a hand into the seat for weapon of some kind. But Kurt, in a rush, knocked him over the front guard. Nash howled. He scrambled up with bloody mouth. Kurt was on him again.
"Take that!" cried Kurt, low and hard, as he swung his arm. The big fist that had grasped so many plow-handles took Nash full on that bloody mouth and laid him flat. "Come on, German! Get out of the trench!"
Like a dog Nash thrashed and crawled, scraping his hands in the dirt, to jump up and fling a rock that Kurt ducked by a narrow margin. Nash followed it, swinging wildly, beating at his adversary.