Barbarians. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ spots decorated the frail membrane of the wings in a curiously pleasing harmony of pattern and of colour.

      "Very unusual," he said, with a vague idea he was saying the wrong thing.

      Monotonously, paying no attention, Professor von Dresslin continued: "I, the life history of the Parnassus Apollo, haff from my early youth investigated with minuteness, diligence, and patience."—His protuberant eyes were now fixed on Brown's rifle again.—"For many years I haff bred this Apollo butterfly from the egg, from the caterpillar, from the chrysalis. I have the negroid forms, the albino forms, the dwarf forms, the hybrid forms investigated under effery climatic condition. Notes sufficient for three volumes of quarto already exist as a residuum of my investigations–"

      He looked up suddenly into the American's face—which was the first sudden movement the Herr Professor had made–

      "Ach wass! Three volumes! It is nothing. Here iss material for thirty!—A lifetime iss too short to know all the secrets of a single species.... If I may inquire, sir, of what pattern is your most interesting and admirable rifle?"

      "A—Ross," said Brown, startled into a second's hesitation.

      "So? And, if I may inquire, of what nationality iss it, a R-r-ross?"

      "It's a Canadian weapon. We Americans use it a great deal for big game."

      "So?… And it iss also by the Canadian military employed perhaps, sir?"

      "I believe," said Brown, carelessly, "that the British Government has taken away the Ross rifle from the Canadians and given them the regulation weapon."

      "So? Permit—that I examine, sir?"

      Brown did not seem to hear him or notice the extended hand—blunt-fingered, hairy, persistent.

      The Professor, not discouraged, repeated: "Sir, bitte darf ich, may I be permitted?" And Brown's eyes flashed back a lightning shaft of inquiry. Then, carelessly smiling, he passed the Ross rifle over to the Herr Professor; and, at the same time, drew toward him that gentleman's silver-mounted weapon, and carelessly cocked it.

      "Permit me," he murmured, balancing it innocently in the hollow of his left arm, apparently preoccupied with admiration at the florid workmanship of stock and guard. No movement that the Herr Professor made escaped him; but presently he thought to himself—"The old dodo is absolutely unsuspicious. My nerves are out of order.... What odd eyes that Fritz has!"

      When Herr Professor von Dresslin passed back the weapon Brown laid the German sporting piece beside it with murmured complimentary comment.

      "Yess," said the German, "such rifles kill when properly handled. We Germans may cordially recommend them for our American—friends—" Here was the slightest hesitation—"Pardon! I mean that we may safely guarantee this rifle to our friends."

      Brown looked thoughtfully at the thick lenses of the spectacles. The popeyes remained expressionless, utterly, Teutonically inscrutable. A big heather bee came buzzing among the alpenrosen. Its droning hum resembled the monotone of the Herr Professor.

      Behind them Brown heard Stent saying: "Do you remember our ambition to wear the laurels of Parnassus, Siurd? Do you remember our notes at the lectures on the poets? And our ambition to write at least one deathless poem apiece before we died?"

      Von Glahn's dark eyes narrowed with merriment and his gentle laugh and attractive voice sounded pleasantly in Brown's ears.

      "You wrote at least one famous poem to Rosa," he said, still laughing.

      "To Rosa? Oh! Rosa of the Café Luitpold! By Jove I did, didn't I, Siurd? How on earth did you ever remember that?"

      "I thought it very pretty." He began to repeat aloud:

      "Rosa with the winsome eyes,

      When my beer you bring to me;

      I can see through your disguise!

      I my goddess recognize—

      Hebe, young immortally,

      Sweet nepenthe pouring me!"

      Stent laughed outright:

      "How funny to think of it now—and to think 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 bandoulière.

      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 snow up there."

      "In the snow, perhaps. God knows exactly where we shall lie tonight—Mr. Brown."

      There was an odd look in Siurd's soft brown eyes; he turned and spoke to Herr Professor von Dresslin, using dialect—and instantly appearing to recollect himself he asked pardon of Stent and Brown in his very perfect English.

      "I said to the Herr Professor in the Traun dialect: 'Ibex may be stirring, as it is already late afternoon. We ought СКАЧАТЬ