"

"Well, he's certainly the most slumbering devil I ever saw. If that's the
worst French soil can propagate, it's hard to believe the Germans they
tackle get much of an inferno."

In spite of his skepticism, however, Peter had an unexpected glimpse into
that inferno the day before they landed. For thirty-six hours they had
been running through the danger zone with life-boats loose on their
davits, life-belts ready for adjustment, and nerves tense. Then the
tension had suddenly relaxed, everybody talked with everybody else,
displaying a lack of restraint that bordered on intimacy. Peter and Sheila
were strolling an almost deserted deck toward a group amidships. As they
neared it they saw it was dominated by two principal figures--one a
professional philanthropist with more sentiment than judgment, and the
other Monsieur Satan. The philanthropist was talking in what Peter termed
an "open-throttle voice."

"But you don't mean you would ever harm a defenseless prisoner, Captain
Fauchet? Of course you would never allow your men to kill a fallen enemy
or one supplicating mercy."

"Supplicating mercy--bah!" The mouth that could smile so boyishly had a
diabolical twist, the eyes blazed like hell-fires, as Peter said
afterward. "There is only the one Boche that is safe, madame--the dead
Boche. When we find them wriggling I teach my men to make them
safe--quickly!" The lips smiled sardonically. Monsieur Satan was a boy no
longer; in some inexplicable fashion he had come into full possession of
that Mephistophelian middle-age.

But the lady philanthropist had neither the eyes to see nor the
intelligence to understand. Instead she clumsily parried with invisible
forces. "Of course you don't mean that, Captain Fauchet. You are just
making believe you are a wicked man. I believe you are trying to stuff me,
as our American slang puts it. Now if a wounded German came running toward
you crying Kamerad--"

"Sacrebleu! Oui, madame, once I listen to that Kamerad. But now--jamais!
When they call it with their lying tongues I shout them back 'Kamerad to
hell!' and I zigeuille." The right hand made a swift, subtle twist with a
deep thrust. It took little imagination to guess what it was supposed to
be holding. For a second Monsieur Satan's eyes still continued to blaze at
the woman before him; then he tossed back his head, plunged through the
crowd, and was gone.

"A devil of a Blue Devil," quoted Peter under his breath. "Our friend,