of Rosa!... And you, Siurd, do
you forget that you also composed a most wonderful war-poem--to the metre
of 'Fly, Eagle, Fly!' Do you remember how it began?

"Slay, Eagle, Slay!
They die who dare decry us!
Red dawns 'The Day.'
The western cliffs defy us!
Turn their grey flood
To seas of blood!
And, as they flee, Slay, Eagle! Slay!
For God has willed this German 'Day'!"

"Enough," said Siurd Von Glahn, still laughing, but turning very red.
"What a terrible memory you have, Harry! For heaven's sake spare my
modesty such accurate reminiscences."

"I thought it fine poetry--then," insisted Stent with a forced smile. But
his voice had subtly altered.

They looked at each other in silence, the reminiscent smile still stamped
upon their stiffening lips.

For a brief moment the years had seemed to fade--time was not--the
sunshine of that careless golden age had seemed to warm them once again
there where they sat amid the _alpenrosen_ below the snow line on the Col
de la Reine.

But it did not endure; everything concerning earth and heaven and life and
death had so far remained unsaid between these two. And never would be
said. Both understood that, perhaps.

Then Von Glahn's sidelong and preoccupied glance fell on Stent's field
glasses slung short around his neck. His rigid smile died out. Soldiers
wore field glasses that way; hunters, when they carried them instead of
spyglasses, wore them _en bandouliere_.

He spoke, however, of other matters in his gentle, thoughtful
voice--avoiding always any mention of politics and war--chatted on
pleasantly with the familiarity and insouciance of old acquaintance. Once
he turned slowly and looked at Brown--addressed him politely--while his
dark eyes wandered over the American, noting every detail of dress and
equipment, and the slight bulge at his belt line beneath the tunic.

Twice he found pretext to pick up his rifle, but discarded it carelessly,
apparently not noticing that Stent and Brown always resumed their own
weapons when he touched his.

Brown said to Von Glahn:

"Ibex stalking is a new game to me. My friend Stent tells me that you are
old at it."

"I have followed some few ibex, Mr. Brown," replied the young man
modestly. "And--other game," he added with a shrug.

"I know how it's done in theory," continued the American; "and I am
wondering whether we are to lie in this spot until dawn tomorrow or
whether we climb higher and lie in the