so pink and smooth. A ring with a ruby, beautifully cut, was on his little finger. Bert Fuller screwed it off and offered it to Claude. He shook his head. That English sentence had unnerved him. Bert held the ring out to Hicks, but the Sergeant threw down his revolver and broke out:
“Think I’d touch anything of his? That beautiful little girl, and my buddy–He’s worse than dead, Dell is, worse!” He turned his back on his comrades so that they wouldn’t see him cry.
“Can I keep it myself, sir?” Bert asked.
Claude nodded. David had come in, and was opening the shutters. This officer, Claude was thinking, was a very different sort of being from the poor prisoners they had been scooping up like tadpoles from the cellars. One of the men picked up a gorgeous silk dressing gown from the bed, another pointed to a dressing-case full of hammered silver. Gerhardt said it was Russian silver; this man must have come from the Eastern front. Bert Fuller and Nifty Jones were going through the officer’s pockets. Claude watched them, and thought they did about right. They didn’t touch his medals; but his gold cigarette case, and the platinum watch still ticking on his wrist,–he wouldn’t have further need for them. Around his neck, hung by a delicate chain, was a miniature case, and in it was a painting,–not, as Bert romantically hoped when he opened it, of a beautiful woman, but of a young man, pale as snow, with blurred forget-me-not eyes.
Claude studied it, wondering. “It looks like a poet, or something. Probably a kid brother, killed at the beginning of the war.”
Gerhardt took it and glanced at it with a disdainful express-
