It was the officer whom I heard speaking first.  He spoke loudly, and as I say, having been of the Intelligence Department, I did not go too far away.

“You have my friend insulted, and you must immediately satisfaction make!” said the young Officier.

“That will I gladly do, if your friend will deign to come up here.  There are more ways of fighting than getting into a feather-bed and cutting at the corners.”  So our young Englander spoke, with his high voice, piping and clipping his words as all the English do.

“Sir,” said the officer, with some heat, “I bring you a cartel, and I am an officer of the Kaiser.  What is your answer?”

“Then, Herr Hauptmann,” said the Englishman, “since you are a soldier, you and I know what fighting is, and that snipping and snicking at noses is no fighting.  Tell your friend to come up here and have a turn with the two-ounce gloves, and I shall be happy to give him all the satisfaction he wants.  Otherwise I will only fight him with pistols, and to the death also.  If he will not fight in my way, I shall beat him with a cane for having insulted me, whenever I meet him.”

With that the officer came down to me, and he said, “It is as you thought.  The Englishman will not fight with the Schlaeger, but he has more steel in his veins than a dozen of Hellmuths.  Thunderweather, I shall fight Hellmuth myself to-morrow morning, if it be that he burns so greatly to be led away.  Once before I gave him a scar of heavenly beauty!”

So he clanked off in the ten days’ glory of his spurs.  I have seen many such as he stiff on the slope of Spichern and in the woods beneath St. Germain.  Yet he was a Kerl of mettle, and will make a brave soldier and upstanding officer.

But the Herr has again come in and he says that all this is a particular kind of nonsense which, because I write also for ladies, I shall not mention.  I am not sure, also, what English words it is proper to put on paper.  The Herr says that he will tear every word up that I have written, which would be a sad waste of the Frau Wittwe’s paper and ink.  He says, this hot Junker, that in all my writing there is yet no word of Paris or the days of the Commune, which is true.  He also says that my head is the head of a calf, and, indeed, of several other animals that are but ill-considered in England.

So I will be brief.

In Seventy, therefore, I fought in the field and scouted with the Uhlans.  Ah, I could tell the stories!  Those were the days.  It is a mistake to think that the country-people hated us, or tried to kill us.  On the contrary, if I might tell it, many of the young maids—­

Ach, bitte, Herr—­of a surety I will proceed and tell of Paris.  I am aware that it is not to be expected that the English should care to hear of the doings of the Reiters of the black-and-white pennon in the matter of the maids.

But in Seventy-one, during the siege and the terrible days of the Commune, I was in Paris, what you call a spy.  It was the order of the Chancellor—­our man of blood-and-iron.  Therefore it was right and not ignoble that I should be a spy.