The court was therefore cleared, and Major Blenkin and I proceeded to consider our verdict, with no other company than the dozen empty stools which had faced us during the trial, and which represented the inalienable right of the civil population to attend the court if they pleased.  Custom forbids me to divulge the finding or the sentence.  It will suffice to say that justice was tempered with mercy.  We were about to readmit the prisoner, his escort and the imaginary public when my partner in the suppression of crime was struck by an idea.

“Look here,” asked Major Blenkin, “what about the moral aspect?”

I hesitate to argue with Blenkin about moral questions, on which he speaks with authority.  I therefore awaited his next remark.

“The moral aspect,” Blenkin went on, “is most important.  I intend to impress this fellow.  I shall tell him that if he had been a French peasant and had offered a bribe to a German officer he would have been put against a wall and shot.  Do you agree?”

I considered the proposition.

“No,” I said, “I don’t.”

Blenkin threw me a suspicious glance.  “Why not?” he asked.

“Too many assumptions,” I said.

Blenkin bridled indignantly.  It was on the tip of his tongue to charge me with being a pro-German.  He controlled himself and rang a bell.  “I shall hold to my own opinion,” he remarked with some asperity.

The prisoner, his escort and the interpreter were marched in.  Adolf Hans Pumpenheim created the customary diversion by turning to the right on the command, “Left turn,” and the sergeant-major made the customary comments, undeterred by the prisoner’s ignorance of English.  The imaginary public filed in and occupied the vacant stools.

When this bustle had subsided, the finding and the sentence were read by Blenkin and duly translated by the interpreter.  Pumpenheim was quite impassive, and maintained his composure throughout the small financial transaction which followed.  He counted out his notes with an air of fatalism.  Having obtained a receipt for the fine he made us a little bow and turned to leave the court.

“One moment,” said Major Blenkin.

“Einen Augenblick,” echoed the interpreter.  Pumpenheim faced about and stood to attention.

Blenkin cleared his throat.  “I will not dwell upon the moral aspect of your case,” he said.  The prisoner’s features expressed neither relief nor surprise, but polite inquiry.  Blenkin, slightly ruffled, enlarged upon the heinous nature of the crime and the leniency of the sentence.  Finally he produced his masterpiece of comparison—­the French peasant, the German officer, the attempted bribe, the execution.  When the last grim lines of the imaginary history had been translated for him, Pumpenheim felt some observation on his part to be called for.

“So-o?” he said, “so-o?”

But I heard incredulity in his voice.  Blenkin read it in his face.  The prisoner did not believe a word of the tale.  He was indifferent to the homily.