Part 21 (1/2)

”I am writing to my mother,” the cadet says, angrily. At the mention of the name of Wodin he flushes to the roots of his hair.

”Indeed!--how touching!” the lieutenant goes on. ”What are you writing to her? Are you asking her for money? or are you soothing her anxiety with an account of the solid character of your principles? Do show me your letter.”

The cadet spreads his arms over the sheet before him, thereby blotting the well-formed characters that cover it. ”I tell you what, Stein----!”

he bursts forth at his tormentor, his voice quivering with anger.

Meanwhile, Lato turns towards him. ”Toni!” he exclaims, recognizing a relative in the irate young fellow,--”Toni Flammingen!--can it be? The last time I saw you, you were in your public-school uniform. You've grown since then, my boy.”

Stein turns away from this touching family scene, and, taking his place behind Lieutenant Spreil, who is still occupied in dressing his hair, observes, in a tone of great gravity,--

”Don't you think, Spreil, that you could make part of your thick beard useful in decorating that bald head of yours? Comb it up each side and confine it in place with a little sticking-plaster. It might do.”

Spreil turns upon him in a fury. ”It might do for me to send you a challenge!” he thunders.

”By all means: a little extra amus.e.m.e.nt would be welcome just now,”

Stein retorts, carelessly.

Spreil bows, and leaves the room with majesty.

”For heaven's sake, Stein, what are you about?” Harry, who has been observing the scene, asks the idle lieutenant.

”I have made a vow to rid our regiment of the fellow,--to chaff him out of it,” Stein replies, with the sublime composure which results from the certainty of being in the right. ”We do not want the infantry cad.

If he is determined to mount on horseback, let him try a velocipede, or sit astride of Pegasus, for all I care; but in our regiment he shall not stay. You'll be my second, Les?”

”Of course, if you insist upon it,” Harry replies; ”but it goes against the grain. I detest this perpetual duelling for nothing at all. It is bad form.”

”You need not talk; you used to be the readiest in the regiment to fight. I remember you when I was in the dragoons. But a betrothed man must, of course, change his views upon such subjects.”

At the word ”betrothed” Harry shrinks involuntarily. Treurenberg looks up.

”Betrothed!” he exclaims. ”And to whom?”

”Guess,” says the lieutenant, who is an old acquaintance of Treurenberg's.

”It is not hard to guess. To your charming little cousin Zdena.”

The lieutenant puckers his lips as if about to whistle, and says, ”Not exactly. Guess again.”

Meanwhile, Harry stands like a man in the pillory who is waiting for a shower of stones, and says not a word.

”Then--then--” Treurenberg looks from the lieutenant to his friend, ”I have no idea,” he murmurs.

”To the Baroness Paula Harfink,” says the lieutenant, his face devoid of all expression.

There is a pause. Treurenberg's eyes try in vain to meet those of his friend.

From without come the clatter of spurs and the drone of a hand-organ grinding out some popular air.

”Is it true?” asks Treurenberg, who cannot rid himself of the idea that the mischievous lieutenant is jesting. And Harry replies, as calmly as possible,--