LINDBERG
“Danke,” said Hammersley quietly, his face solemn but his mind working rapidly. “It is but right to make one’s peace with the world at a time like this.”
“I am sorry, mein Herr,” said the man mournfully. “It is not good for a man to die in the first flush of youth.”
“If it could only have been in the open, Senf, a soldier’s death, but this—Ach, wohl—we can only go once. It doesn’t matter.” He gave a deep sigh and asked his guardian to light his pipe again and open the Book at the Psalms of David.
“I cannot turn the pages, my friend. It is a pity. But propped upon one elbow I can see quite well if you will but put the candle here upon the bed.”
The man did as requested and Hammersley thanked him.
“You are a kind fellow. It is bread upon the waters. You will find it after many days.”
“It is nothing. I would expect as much from another.”
“Now, if you will permit, I would prefer the solitude of my thoughts.”
The soldier turned slowly away and Hammersley bent his gaze upon the open page, but he did not read. He was thinking, planning, watching the movements of Max Senf. Eight o’clock was long past. It must be nearly nine. But two hours remained before the arrival of the messenger from Berlin. His guardian paced slowly up and down the room between the door and window, and Hammersley felt, if he did not see, his deep bovine gaze fixed upon him from time to time. Eight or ten times the man took the length of the room and then with a deep sigh he sank into the chair at the
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