That last poignant appeal brought Kurt to his senses.  He let go of Nash.  He allowed the girl to lead him back.  Panting hard, he tried to draw a deep, full breath.

“Oh, he doesn’t move!” whispered Lenore, with wide eyes on Nash.

“Miss Anderson—­he’s not—­even insensible,” panted Kurt.  “But he’s licked—­good and hard.”

The girl leaned against the side of the car, with a hand buried in her heaving breast.  She was recovering.  The gray shade left her face.  Her eyes, still wide and dark and beginning to glow with softer emotions, were upon Kurt.

“You—­you were the one to come,” she murmured.  “I prayed.  I was terribly frightened.  Ruenke was taking me—­to the I.W.W. camp, up in the hills.”

“Ruenke?” queried Kurt.

“Yes, that’s his German name.”

Kurt awoke to the exigencies of the situation.  Searching in the car, he found a leather belt.  With this he securely bound Ruenke’s hands behind his back, then rolled him down into the road.

“My first German prisoner,” said Kurt, half seriously.  “Now, Miss Anderson, we must be doing things.  We don’t want to meet a lot of I.W.W.’s out here.  My car is out of commission.  I hope yours is not broken.”

Kurt got into the car and found, to his satisfaction, that it was not damaged so far as running-gear was concerned.  After changing the ruined tire he backed down the road and turned to stop near where Ruenke lay.  Opening the rear door, Kurt picked him up as if he had been a sack of wheat and threw him into the car.  Next he secured the rifle that had been such a burden and had served him so well in the end.

“Get in, Miss Anderson,” he said, “and show me where to drive you home.”

She got in beside him, making a grimace as she saw Ruenke lying behind her.  Kurt started and ran slowly by the damaged car.

“He knocked a wheel off.  I’ll have to send back.”

“Oh, I thought it was all over when we hit!” said the girl.

Kurt experienced a relaxation that was weakening.  He could hardly hold the wheel and his mood became one of exaltation.

“Father suspected this Ruenke,” went on Lenore.  “But he wanted to find out things from him.  And I—­I undertook—­to twist Mr. Germany round my finger.  I made a mess of it....  He lied.  I didn’t make love to him.  But I listened to his love-making, and arrogant German love-making it was!  I’m afraid I made eyes at him and let him believe I was smitten....  Oh, and all for nothing!  I’m ashamed...  But he lied!”

Her confidence, at once pathetic and humorous and contemptuous, augmented Kurt’s Homeric mood.  He understood that she would not even let him, for a moment, have a wrong impression of her.

“It must have been hard,” agreed Kurt.  “Didn’t you find out anything at all?”

“Not much,” she replied.  Then she put a hand on his sleeve.  “Your knuckles are all bloody.”