A QUESTION OF MEMORY
der the death of Mistitch. In short, the men won't stand it." He tapped Markart's arm. "The General must release unto us Barabbas!"
The man's easy self-confidence, his air of authority, surprised neither of his companions. If there were a good soldier besides the Commandant in Slavna, Stafnitz was the man; if there were a head in Kravonia cooler than Stenovics's, it was on the shoulders of Stafnitz. He was the brain to Mistitch's body—the mind behind Captain Hercules's loud voice and brawny fist.
"Tell him not to play his big stake on a bad hand. Mind you tell him that."
"His big stake, Colonel?" asked Markart. "What do I understand by that?"
"Nothing; and you weren't meant to. But tell Stenovics he'll understand."
Rastatz laughed his rickety giggle again.
"Rastatz does that to make you think he understands better than you do. Be comforted he doesn't." Rastatz's laugh broke out again, but now forced and uneasy. "And the girl who knocked Sterkoff out of time—I wish she'd killed the stupid brute what about her, Markart?"
"She's—er—a very remarkable person, Colonel."
"Er—is she? I must make her acquaintance. Good-bye, Markart."
Markart had meant to stay for half an hour, but he went.
"Good-bye, Rastatz."
Rastatz had just ordered another liqueur; but, without waiting to drink it, he too went. Stafnitz sat on alone, smoking his cigar. There were no signs of care on his face. Though not gay, it was calm and smooth; no wrinkles witnessed to worry, nor marred
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