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_.