"Him pretty surely."
A shudder jerked her shoulders together in a spasm; he wanted to still her under his hands; but he did not. He knew why she asked particularly about De Trevenac; she had seen him, heard his voice, perhaps; she could picture him standing blindfolded to be shot—upon her information. He would be her first slain.
Gerry had been a bit more brutal in his way of telling her than he had intended; indeed, now he did not understand himself. He had acted upon instinct to torment, rather than spare her, to see how she took it.
She raised her head proudly. She's beautiful, he thought. The poise of that well-shaped head always was pretty; her shoulders, even under the khaki, were pretty; they were well-formed, firm shoulders. His gaze had dropped to them from her eyes; but now went back to her blue eyes again.
"Did you ever see—before—a man you had to kill?" she asked.
"A few times," he said.
"The first man you killed?"
"The first man I ever was certain that I killed was when I was in the foreign legion," he said. "We were advancing, using bayonets. The Huns weren't expecting an offensive there; it was the first year after they'd failed in France and were using their best troops in Russia. We found a Landsturm regiment against us—middle-aged men, married mostly, I suppose; fathers. I saw the face of one a second or so before I put my bayonet through him. A couple of times since, maneuvering for position in the air, I've got a good glimpse at chaps I was lucky
