And he explained how things were managed in his trade, at the factory. If one of the workmen was unfairly treated, or if the pay was considered too small, then they had a thorough good strike. They took care to choose the best possible time for it, when the manufacturers had the most pressing work to do. The trade-union, to which of course they all had to belong, kept blacklegs at a distance, and they went on doggedly righting until new terms had been won. Certainly the workmen did not invariably carry all their demands; but a strike seldom ended without their gaining some solid advantage. Yes, the workers had only to show the world that they were a power; that they were not going to be trampled on for ever; that they intended henceforth to have their share of the profits which they had hitherto been putting into the pockets of the rich, although earned by their own toil and sweat.

Or Weise would reckon how much was spent in one day's gun-practice. Each shot cost about fifteen marks; and the sixth battery alone had fired about a hundred and twenty shots that morning. There were six batteries in each regiment, four regiments in each army-corps, and twenty-three army-corps in the whole of Germany.

"Any-one who likes can reckon it up," said Weise. "In any case the money would be enough to give every poor devil in the whole world one happy day!"

He pulled out a sheet of paper and read from it the sum that Germany spent annually on her army. It made the men open their eyes pretty wide. An incredible sum, truly, of which they could form no clear idea at all.

Sometimes one of them would say! "But look here, old man; suppose there was war, and we had no soldiers?"

"War! war!" said Weise. "What is war, pray? Who is it that makes war? Do you want war? Do you want to have to go and stand up like those targets out there and be hit on the skull or in the belly by the shrapnel?"

"Not I."

"Perhaps you would, Findeisen?"

"I? God damn me—no!"

"Or you, Truchsess?"

The brewer thought a moment, and answered:

"No, certainly not. I wish for peace. But the French might want to fight us, or the Russians."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Weise. "Well, now, think about it a moment. Over there in France are sitting together just such poor simple fellows as we are here. Ask them if they want to let themselves be shot dead in a moment without rhyme or reason? Do you expect them to say yes?"

"No, of course not. But—but—then who is it who really does want war?"

Weise did not speak for a moment, but laughed softly. Then he answered, shrugging his shoulders: "Ah, that I don't know. Probably nobody. So much only is clear: we don't want it."

During these conversations, Wolf, the lean gunner of the "old gang," was always careful to hold aloof. He listened to the talk, but never joined in it. When his comrades had gone in to bed, he would stay on, gazing out into the beautiful night of the woods. No one longed as fervently as he did for the end of the term of service. He, who had been wont to grudge every day on which he had done nothing to further the cause of revolution and social-democracy, was forbidden for two long years to allow a word to pass his lips about what lay nearest his heart! Yet he was all the more cautious not to commit any indiscretions that might perhaps entail a prolongation of the hateful restraint.

Hitherto he had had but a vague comprehension of the idea of freedom; now he felt that he grasped it. Freedom! It meant the time after his discharge—the time when he would no longer wear the soldier's uniform! When, during these weeks, Wolf had been an auditor of Weise's covertly inflammatory speeches, he had longed each time to step forward and speak out too. He knew that his own words would have flowed far more convincingly and more passionately than Weise's. But he knew also that in such case he would only have the greater difficulty in restraining himself afterwards; so he kept silence.

However, the end was attained without his help. It was quite remarkable how after such conversations these peasant lads and the others, who up to now had heard nothing of socialism and labour movements, rapidly assimilated the new and palatable wisdom, although no word of direct propaganda had been spoken. And if this result was so marked in their own corps, where the work was not very irksome or heavy, what must it not be among the infantry over yonder, where any small spark of liking for the soldier's life must be quenched by the deadly monotony of eternal parade-drill!

Not long before, a man had suddenly gone mad in the middle of drill. What was responsible for this calamity? The sun, over-exertion, perhaps an inherited tendency that would in any case sooner or later have resulted in such a catastrophe? No one could say with any certainty. But the men who had seen and heard how the poor fellow writhed and shrieked, gripped their rifles tightly, and the same thought could plainly be read in the eyes of them all.

No wonder that the period of military service was extremely favourable to the spread of social-democracy! Such sensational object-lessons were not necessary; the circumstances of every-day life all pointed towards socialism.

Wolf understood the part that Weise played in the battery. It was always the same. Each batch of recruits was a mixture of men from towns and men from the country. The city-bred, even if fewer in number, immediately established an ascendancy over the country yokels. They were quicker-witted, and their town bringing-up had developed their intelligence more. And just because of this they adapted themselves more easily to the requirements of military service, so that they often made better soldiers than the country recruits with their slower comprehension. Most of them were entirely unaware that they were socialistic agitators; they quite unconsciously imparted to their fellow-soldiers ideas that to them appeared self-evident, but that for the others meant an upheaval of their whole way of thinking.

What was the use of searching every hole and corner of the barracks at regular intervals for socialistic literature? They could confiscate red rosettes and pamphlets; but how could they control transient, intangible thoughts?

On Sundays the camp was as quiet as it was full of life on week-days. The boundary-lines beyond which the men were not allowed to pass without leave, were drawn round a considerable area. Within it were three large villages; and on Sundays their taverns were thronged by soldiers quartered in the camp. The enterprising innkeepers had made ample provision for such crowds of visitors. They had erected wooden platforms in the open air where dancing went on without intermission, regimental bands supplying the music; and the amount of beer consumed in one Sunday was greater than that drunk by the entire village the whole winter through. Of course there were strong patrols set to keep order at the dancing-platforms and licensed houses. As there were too few partners for the soldiers quarrels were of constant occurrence, and were seldom amicably settled; a brawl was the usual result, and at times a regular fight.

It was the custom in these villages to hire maidservants only by the month, as sufficient work could hardly be found for them during the winter; and there were also other members of the female sex—not servants, but ladies who had taken up their summer quarters here. They were the cause of much perplexity to the officers in command of the troops. The soldiers would stand in queues at the doors of these summer residences, like people at a baker's shop in time of famine; and then if any of them were drunk and got a little impatient there was sure to be a row. Censorious tongues passed severe comments on such proceedings. The commanding officers were most anxious to rectify the evil; but they could hardly post sentries at those particular houses, and finally they got over the difficulty by bringing a little moral pressure to bear upon the local authorities. These worthy civilians achieved the desired end by the simple means of administrative expulsions.

As the two comrades were getting ready to go out, Vogt asked the clerk: "Well, Heinrich, what shall we do with ourselves? Shall we go along and drink a glass of beer and look on at the racket for a bit?"

"If you like, Franz," replied Klitzing.

"Then we won't," said Vogt. "You ought to say at once when you don't like a thing. I don't in the least want to go myself, and we can always get beer in the canteen. We'll just walk a bit through the wood as far as the butts, shall we?"

Klitzing assented, and they waited till their comrades were off, then strolled slowly into the cool forest. Troops of men were leaving the camp gates to walk by the hard high road towards the villages that could be seen in the distance.

Vogt looked after the cloud of dust they made.

"Can you understand what they see in women?" he asked.

"No, indeed I can't."

"You don't care about women?"

The clerk shook his head. "And you, Franz?" he inquired.

"Not I. At any rate, not yet."

Walking on in the shade of the forest's edge they came at last to the butts. The black, tarred, wooden target had been put up ready for the next day, and cheerfully awaited the terrors of the firing that lay before it. A little to one side of the principal erection a ruined village stood out against the blue of the summer sky. It had been purchased by the Government and left standing to be used for testing the effect of shots upon buildings.

The shells had certainly done their work. Substantial walls had gaping fissures right through them; gables and chimney-stacks had been laid low. Some of the houses seemed to have been set on fire by the shots, and any wood-work spared by the devouring flames had been stolen and carried away by some-one or other. No stairs were left leading to the upper storeys, nor boards to any of the floors. Rafters and beams had been hewn down; doors and windows with their frames had been torn out. On some of the walls rude drawings had been scrawled in paint or red chalk, with facetious inscriptions and obscene jokes; but from most of them the whitewash had fallen, leaving bare the rough masonry. It was a depressing picture of desolation. One could almost imagine that the smell of burning still hung about.

Vogt gazed gloomily at the ruins and said: "And that's what things look like in war! By God, it's true! we must do away with war!"

Klitzing smiled quietly to himself: "Yes, but who'll be the first to begin?" he asked.

The regiment stayed fully three weeks at the practice-camp, and then accomplished the return journey to the garrison in three days.

The two friends were anxiously looking forward to the leave that had been promised the men after the gun-practice. They were to start on the first Saturday in July, and had eight days' leave granted to them. Only very few had been allowed as much, and their captain did not fail to point out in a little speech that this favour was due to their blameless conduct at the practice-camp.

It was one of Wegstetten's little methods, when he found good qualities in his men and wished to spur them on, to make the meagre rewards that the service held out to them appear in a specially brilliant light. Regardless of exaggeration, he spoke of that week's leave as if it were an extremely rare mark of distinction unheard of for years. And on the whole he gained his object. As Vogt and Klitzing stood before their commanding officer blushing with pride, they had the feeling that they must thank him, and promise to go on doing their duty. They only did not know how. At length Vogt plucked up courage and stammered a few words.

Captain von Wegstetten listened kindly. He had soon perceived that he had to do with two worthy, honest lads; and, with his own ends in view, he proceeded to inquire in a condescending way about their homes. When it then came out that the one had invited the other to stay with him, he praised them for their faithful comrade-ship, and took the first opportunity of relating this instance of the fraternising of town and country to the colonel, who liked such proofs of an individual interest being taken in the soldiers.

The first Saturday in July was a day of excitement for the turnpike-keeper, Friedrich August Vogt. He was rather annoyed with himself for losing his usual calm. Why? because his son—his only son—was coming home for the first time? Really, that was not such an event as to put him beside himself in this way! And then next he blamed himself for having thought it unbefitting an old soldier, and too soft-hearted altogether, to go and fetch his son from the station. He could not remain in the house, so he went to a spot on the highway whence he could watch the railway. He could see the train coming in, and the clouds of white smoke from the engine rising up from behind the station; then he heard the whistle—but still nothing was to be seen of the two holiday-makers. Could Franz be stopping to have a glass of beer? No; now the two men could be seen emerging from the village on to the broad high-road, their helmets and uniform buttons glistening in the sun—it must be they! The turnpike-keeper drew back a little, so that he was out of sight. Why should the boy know that he had been staring the eyes out of his head in order to catch the first glimpse of him?

When Vogt and Klitzing arrived at the house he looked out of the window as if quite by chance. "Ah, here you are!" and with a hearty grip of the hand he bade them both welcome.

But it was no use fighting against it, he could not take his eyes off his son. What a well set-up, vigorous young fellow his Franz had grown! Yet he was still the same good honest lad; that was written in his face.

And Franz's friend, with his frank open countenance, inspired confidence at once. He looked, to be sure, as if he had never in his life had enough to eat. He must be properly fed up for once. While he was on leave, at any rate, he should not want for anything.

The two gunners settled down very quickly, and nothing could prevent Franz from going round the fields the very first evening while his father milked and fed the cows. He had almost hoped to find something or other left neglected because he had not been there when it was put in hand. But no, his father had allowed nothing to go wrong anywhere.

And now in the company of the two young soldiers the old turnpike-keeper became quite a different creature. He realised suddenly that the quiet, sluggish peasant's blood had not quite replaced in him the old, quick-flowing blood of the soldier. He listened, fascinated, to the tales told by the two gunners about their soldier's life. How things had changed since his time! He could never hear enough about it all.

Then Franz came to tell of his reflections during the gun-practice: how through the fence he had seen the infantry battalion tormented with drill for hours at a time; how the dried-up looking major had foamed with fury; and how the poor devil of a private had been struck down bodily and mentally in the middle of it all.

Old Vogt quietly heard his son out, although he was burning to speak. Then he began: "Look here, youngster, you as a simple soldier can't understand it all. But depend upon it, this drill is the most important thing that every soldier must first be made to learn. For it alone teaches military obedience, soldierly subordination, discipline. It alone can give that unity which preserves a company from utter demoralisation if one of your horrible new-fangled shrapnel bursts among them. But for drill the cowards would turn tail without further ceremony, and take to their heels; and in the end even the brave ones would follow them. It is the drill that teaches them to stay on and stick together."

He held to it, in spite of all his son could say about what he had seen of the kind of drill that the troops were kept at.

"You could not have seen aright," said his father.

The elder Vogt would not allow his son to put his hand to anything in the afternoons. He always insisted on sending the two young fellows out by themselves.

"Be off with you, youngsters," he would say. "Take a walk, drink a glass of beer somewhere or other—whatever you like. Enjoy your few days of freedom!"

Then the two young men would march off and let the hot sun and the fresh air burn them and brown them. Vogt had shown his friend his favourite spot, whence they could look out over the river to the castle in the neighbouring town. There they lay in the grass.

The peasant felt impelled to get up every now and then. He was restless; he felt that he must keep looking at the fields that lay around them. But the clerk lay quite still in the short grass, and with blinking half-closed eyes gazed up into the summer sky.



CHAPTER VIII



Baron Walther von Frielinghausen was made bombardier on July 1st.

He had now got his foot on the ladder of military distinction, but he felt no special elation at the fact. What signified this little piece of promotion in a career which had now no attraction for him?

Wegstetten had arranged that he should at once begin doing some of the work of a corporal; but this, too, had its inconvenient side. When merely a gunner he had always imagined that he knew better than those uneducated fellows the non-coms.; and he had occasionally looked forward to the moment when he would be put in authority, and would be able to show off some of his knowledge. But now to command had become more difficult than to obey, and there was certainly just as much blame going. One was scolded as if one were a silly boy, and the men always took notice of the fact.

Only one thing caused him pleasant anticipations: he would have riding lessons. But this, too, proved unlike his expectations. Heppner, after his fashion, kept him hard at it. Like every recruit, he had to begin with riding bareback; then after a time came the more difficult task of balancing on the slippery saddle without stirrups; and only after considerable practice would the sergeant-major occasionally allow him to let the stirrups down. There were days on which he had more than twenty falls from his horse; and at last it was always in fear and trembling that he went to riding instruction. Whenever his horse dashed away riderless after a jump, Frielinghausen rejoiced in the few minutes' respite that shortened by that much the hour of his lesson. He could never manage to go over a hurdle with his hands placed on his hips; at every jump they snatched at the horse's mane. Heppner raged over this cowardice; but storm and shout as he would, Frielinghausen's hands were for ever clutching at his only means of safety.

At last the sergeant-major left the long-limbed youth alone in his incompetence. He had an impression that Wegstetten wished to hear good of the bombardier, and after all, in the fire-workers, it would not be necessary for Frielinghausen to be a proficient at riding. But the less Frielinghausen knew about horses the more he boasted of his acquirements, when once the riding instruction had come to an end.

As soon as he was made bombardier he was removed from Room IX. to the non-commissioned officers' quarters.

Wegstetten thought to do his protege a favour by this; but Frielinghausen felt no happier in his new surroundings than in the company of the recruits. The mental atmosphere was hardly more enlightened than that of his former room-mates. The service, horses, and women: these were the chief subjects of conversation. They all appeared to be great riders before the Lord, though had Heppner been questioned in the matter he might have expressed a contrary opinion; but every mounted non-com, thinks it necessary to be a bit of a Munchausen. He would far rather be called a blockhead than be told he cannot ride. Though, of course, Frielinghausen contributed his mite to such conversations, on the whole he felt very much in doubt which he preferred: the narrow interests of the common soldiers in Room IX., or the well-meant rough good nature of the non-commissioned officers. He rather inclined to Room IX.

All this was changed when the non-commissioned officers' room received a new inmate, the one-year volunteer Trautvetter.

Captain von Wegstetten fully intended that his one-year volunteers, like his whole battery, should be distinguished above all the others in the regiment. If they behaved well he was most charming to them; if not, then he was all the more strict, because he considered them young people whose superior education laid them under the greater obligations.

All his labour had been in vain with Trautvetter. The one year volunteer was a ne'er-do-weel, a drunkard, a debauchee, and a useless fool on duty into the bargain. And he had command of considerable supplies of money, which, being an orphan and of age, he could spend as he pleased.

All means had failed with him: punishment drill, being reported, deprivation of leave, and being put under arrest. So at last Wegstetten decided to send him to live in barracks.

Trautvetter, a bull-necked, square-shouldered man, with a broad chest, took this punishment with great equanimity. He arranged his belongings complacently in his locker and looked calmly round the bare room. His little eyes had a bleary look of perpetual drunkenness, which obscured the hearty, good-humoured expression really natural to them.

It was all one to him where he lived: was there not beer in the canteen? and if one paid for it the canteen-keeper, despite the prohibition, would let one have a case of bottled ale. The non-coms, of course would drink with him; then they would all be a pleasant company together.

He was right in his calculations: none of them could withstand the good cigars and drinks which he distributed freely. Even the sergeant-major took to joining them; such a chance was not to be let slip. But the deputy sergeant-major, Heimert, kept his distance; he was occupied with preparing for his approaching marriage. And Sergeant Wiegandt preferred walking with his sweetheart Frieda in the quiet evenings.

A special relation soon established itself between Frielinghausen and the one-year volunteer. Trautvetter had been a couple of terms at Breslau, and the education they had both received gave them something in common.

Frielinghausen had a good time now. Trautvetter paid for him and let him take part in his amusements and pleasures. It even seemed as though Trautvetter had some honourable feeling towards the young baron, for he sternly refused ever to let him join in the gambling with which the drinking-bouts soon came to be enlivened.

The one-year volunteer had his reasons for this. His luck remained faithful to him with almost puzzling persistency. His little swimming eyes seemed to hypnotise the dealer when they were playing cards, and his big fat hands had nothing to do but to rake in the winnings.

He had not the least scruple in taking money from the sergeant-major and Trumpeter-sergeant Henke, who were usually his adversaries—why else did the fellows play with him? but he did not like winning from Frielinghausen.

When the two non-commissioned officers had lost all their money, Trautvetter had no objection to lending, and let them give him notes-of-hand, which at last amounted to very considerable sums.

He had not, indeed, any real intention of claiming repayment; but these I.O.U.'s were very useful weapons in his hand, and it was not long before the sergeant-major had to dance to his piping.

Every night when an inspection was not expected, Trautvetter and Heppner would slip out of barracks. As soon as the sentinel had gone round the corner, they would creep out of the window, and make off to a neighbouring tavern, where gambling and drinking went on into the early morning hours.

Heppner ground his teeth as he bowed beneath this uneasy yoke; but there was no help for him. He already owed Trautvetter more than a thousand marks; and the one-year volunteer now became less willing to lend, and caused the sergeant-major endless vexation and trouble. He would suddenly demand to be made corporal, or to be given a couple of weeks' leave: demands which it was quite impossible to grant. But if Heppner pointed this out to him, he would flourish the notes-of-hand under the sergeant-major's nose and threaten to lay them before Wegstetten.

Heppner could think of no other way of escape than the chance of a sudden stroke of luck. Of course, however, he needed money in order to go on playing. He himself had no more, and nobody would lend to him.

At last he fell back on the cash-box of the battery. From time to time he replaced a portion of what he had taken, but the deficit nevertheless became greater and greater.

One morning, in the beginning of August, Wegstetten said to him: "Sergeant Heppner, have the one-year volunteers paid their board-money?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Then get your cash-box ready for settling up accounts. I am just going over to headquarters, and you can have the money and the books for me when I return."

Heppner hardly had the strength to reply with the usual "Very good, sir."

More than a hundred marks was missing from the box. Time pressed; Wegstetten might be back again in half an hour.

He went to find Heimert. Heimert was no friend to him, he knew; but he had always been a good comrade.

The deputy sergeant-major was away at the big parade-ground with the pioneers. That was half-an-hour's distance.

Trautvetter, where was Trautvetter?

At last he discovered him in the canteen.

"Trautvetter, you must lend me a hundred marks!" said the sergeant-major breathlessly.

"Must?" asked the one-year volunteer sarcastically. "Must? Not if I know it!"

Heppner had dragged him out of the canteen into the empty vestibule.

"Yes, yes, you must, Trautvetter!" he repeated.

Trautvetter now perceived the disturbed mien of the sergeant-major. Something very particular must have happened, that was clear; and in such case he could not refuse to help. For it was no part of his plan to push this man to extremity.

"What's up?" he asked.

Heppner murmured, with some confusion: "Settling up accounts, all of a sudden—there is some money missing; of course I had meant to replace it."

Trautvetter understood, and was beginning to pull out his purse, but he suddenly hesitated.

"Why, I have got no money left!" he cried in dismay. "Must it be at once? To-morrow afternoon you can have as much as you want."

"No, no, at once! Wegstetten has only just gone over to headquarters for a minute."

"Damnation! What are we to do?"

The sergeant-major believed Trautvetter was doing this on purpose. He became more insistent, and implored: "Trautvetter, for heaven's sake help me just for once! I beg of you! I beg of you! lend me the money!"

With a shrug the volunteer held out his open purse. There were only a few silver pieces in it.

"You can see for yourself, Herr Heppner," he said. "I am not the sort of fellow to leave you in the lurch like that."

But Heppner could not yet believe him. He begged and threatened. At last the great big fellow threw himself on the ground and clung round Trautvetter's knees: "Just this once, just this once!"

The volunteer pushed him roughly away. The sight of the blubbering giant revolted him.

"Stand up, Heppner!" he insisted. "All this is no good. I would give you the money, but God knows I have none at the moment. Let us consider how we can get out of this."

The sergeant-major stood up again, and looked at him in suspense.

Suddenly Trautvetter pointed to the canteen: "He must lend us something," he whispered.

But the canteen-keeper objected to this. Even when Trautvetter offered him ten, twenty marks for the loan, he remained obstinate.

The volunteer struck the counter furiously.

"Pig-headed fool!" he cried. "Will you do it for fifty?"

The canteen-keeper hesitated. He had settled up the day before; there was not much risk for him, and fifty marks——!

"Give me your note-of-hand," he demanded,

And Trautvetter wrote him an I.O.U. for one hundred and fifty marks.

Heppner took the money, and when Wegstetten came into the orderly-room he found the sergeant-major counting over his cash.

This event made a powerful impression on the one-year volunteer. From the moment when Heppner had lain grovelling on the ground before him a thorough change came over Trautvetter. The whole scene had been unspeakably revolting to him; he was seized with a grim horror on his own account too. Half unconsciously the sight of the big imposing-looking man clamouring and petitioning on his knees made Trautvetter suddenly realise how near he himself stood to a similar degradation.

The next morning he gave the sergeant-major back his notes-of-hand.

Heppner coloured. "Why is this?" he asked. "Perhaps I shall be able to pay them up."

But Trautvetter answered quietly, "No, never mind! I only won the money from you in play, and gambling debts are not legally reclaimable. I ought never to have lent you the money in the first place." Then suddenly Trautvetter assumed a severely respectful manner, and added, "I should like to ask you something, sir; and that is that you would promise me never to play again."

Heppner looked at him, astonished. Was all this irksome dependence on one of his subordinates, this degradation before the whole battery, really to come to an end? He could scarcely believe that any one could be so generous. But he could see that the one-year volunteer was in earnest, not simply making fun of him.

"Yes, I promise you, Trautvetter," he said firmly. "I will not play any more."

And for the moment he meant what he said; he felt that this was the right minute for making good resolutions and turning over a new leaf.

Some days later Wegstetten asked him: "How is the one-year volunteer Trautvetter behaving? I have been quite pleased with him on duty these last few days."

And Heppner answered: "He has been much more steady, sir; there has been no fault to find with him."

The commander of the battery nodded, well pleased.

"You see, sergeant," he said, "my plan has been a success. I think we will let him out of barracks again. You can tell him so."

Trautvetter had also returned all his notes-of-hand to his other debtor, Trumpeter-sergeant Henke.

The cornet-player did not feel constrained to any special feeling of gratitude for this. He had never had the smallest intention of repaying the money, some hedge-lawyer having advised him of the fact that gambling debts were not legally recoverable.

Why therefore should he be grateful?

Lisbeth, on the contrary, his pretty fair-haired wife, was profoundly touched by Trautvetter's generosity.

"Dear, dear!" she sighed, "what a kind good man that volunteer must be, to give away such a lot of money!"

The trumpeter laughed at her: "Silly goose!" he said, "haven't I told you that they were gambling debts, and he could never have claimed them?"

"Well," remarked Lisbeth, "there were others too. Your new uniform was bought with the borrowed money, your beautiful patent leather shoes too, and half-a-dozen pairs of white gloves."

Her husband did not care to remember this: "Hold your tongue!" he growled; but his pretty wife insisted: "No, no, he must be a good kind man!"

"A drunken fat pig, that's what he is!" said Henke. "You can see that at a glance."

"That's as may be," replied Lisbeth calmly; and she proceeded to set forth to her wondering husband a plan she had conceived for increasing the financial resources of the household.

She would do fine washing and ironing for the one-year volunteers; and he, Henke, should arrange it with them.

Henceforth the young wife spent her days over the wash-tub and the ironing-board. She found plenty to do; for the young men liked to have their things brought home by a lovely little person like the trumpeter's wife, in her neat fresh attire.

A special friendship soon established itself between her and Trautvetter. She looked upon the plump volunteer as a good-natured person, who did not, at any rate now, show any of the evil characteristics imputed to him by her husband. He looked rather embarrassed when she thanked him heartily for giving back the notes-of-hand; and as he was acquainted with her husband's weaknesses it came to pass that they often talked about Henke. The woman felt a need of speaking out to some one about her husband, and Trautvetter gave her the best advice he could.

The young woman pleased him with her industrious, intelligent ways. Formerly he would probably have thoughtlessly tried to seduce her; but now he felt an involuntary respect for her diligent activity, and her love for her husband impressed him.

The trumpeter soon became aware that his wife had a certain influence over the one-year volunteer, and he immediately used this discovery to make Lisbeth a means of obtaining further small loans of money.

Lisbeth was ashamed of the deception this entailed upon her; she always refused to undertake the commission, but on each occasion Henke managed to prevail upon her to do so. Then when she brought him the money he would laugh sarcastically. It was capital to have a pretty wife who could manage things so nicely. He had no need even to be jealous; she was helplessly in love with himself!

But in the course of time his wife's eyes were opened. She learnt to examine her husband more closely, and saw through him more clearly every day. How blind she had been! Now that her perceptions were sharpened her fondness suddenly disappeared, and nothing remained but a dim feeling of duty towards him. She would at any rate make good the wrong she had done to Trautvetter in her foolish adoration for her husband, and would not conceal the truth from the one-year volunteer. She said nothing about a new request for money with which Henke had charged her, but confessed to him instead that all he had already given her for housekeeping and such-like had been appropriated by her husband, who had used it to buy himself a gold watch-chain, an extra sword, and silver spurs.

Trautvetter looked down upon her fair head. She had hung down her blushing face and would not look up at him.

"I thought as much," he said.

Without raising her eyes she asked: "Then why did you do it?"

Trautvetter hesitated a moment, then he said gently: "I thought I was doing you a pleasure, Frau Lisbeth."

The young woman looked him full in the face for an instant. Then she stood up quickly, took her washing-basket, and departed.

Henke had been awaiting her at home anxiously. He had just engaged in a love-affair with a music-hall singer, who had been entertaining the country people of the neighbourhood with her ditties during the August cattle-market season. "Countess Miramara" was a great success on the boards, for her costume reached upwards and downwards only just as far as was absolutely necessary; but she repelled the advances of the farmers, though they jingled persuasively the coin they had received in exchange for their oxen and pigs. She preferred to distinguish with her favour the handsome black-bearded trumpeter.

Henke now wanted to show himself a gallant lover. He intended to present the countess with a bracelet.

"Give me the money!" he cried to Lisbeth when she entered.

"I have none," she replied. "Trautvetter won't give me any more."

Henke tugged at his beard. This was a fatal upset to his calculations. What would the countess say if he broke his promise?

He began quietly; "Oh, yes, he'll give you some! You must just be a bit nice to him."

Lisbeth looked surprised. "What do you mean?" she said.

"Well, you women can always manage a man if you only want to, don't you see? Just be really nice to him. It's all the same to me." And he left the room, much put out.

His pretty wife shook her head thoughtfully. What had he meant by "a bit nice"?

Going into the town on an errand she met the one-year volunteer. They walked part of the way together. Lisbeth had forgotten her embarrassment, and chattered away gaily.

Suddenly she remembered her husband's incomprehensible words, and she began, smilingly; "Do you know, Herr Trautvetter, what my husband has just been saying to me, that I was to be really nice to you. Have I not been nice then?"

"What did he mean by that?" Trautvetter asked sharply.

"Well," she laughed, "I ought to have taken back some more money to-day. But I never mean to do that again. And then he said that if I were only really nice to you, you would give me lots of money."

She started, so violently had the man struck his sword upon the ground, and he looked at her quite red and angry.

"Just like the low brute!" he cried.

"What! What do you mean?"

Trautvetter could not contain his wrath. He blurted out: "Don't you know, Frau Lisbeth, what he meant?—that you should take me for a lover!"

She met his glance with a straight look; then she hung her head, and walked dumbly beside him.

"I will go back," she said suddenly.

He took her hand and begged: "Forgive me, Frau Lisbeth! please!"

She nodded silently and turned back on the road they had just traversed.

In her little sitting-room she sank limply into a chair. The windows were wide open; she heard the rippling of the brook, and the insects humming and buzzing in the big willow. At last she roused herself. She must be certain if Trautvetter was right in his suspicion, and that would need cunning. Her plan was soon made; it was very simple: she need only behave as if she had been following her husband's hint, then he would have to declare himself.

"Henke," she began that evening, "Trautvetter has made a proposal to-day. As soon as he has finished his service he is going to buy a place in the country, far away from here, and he wants me to keep house for him. If you agree, then you shall have a hundred marks a month."

Henke was silent for a time; he was in some doubt what he should say to this. Lisbeth was so queer and cold, almost uncanny; but on the other hand she did not seem to be the least annoyed.

In a tone of would-be resignation he said at last: "Well, Lisbeth, if you don't love me any more, if you think it's for your happiness, and you like to leave me——" he stopped.

His wife was suddenly standing before him, deathly pale. She shook her trembling clasped hands in his face, and spat contemptuously on the boards in front of him. Then she fled from the room.

He looked after her stupefied.

"So she's gone!" he muttered. Well, it was no use being too tragic over it. Either Lisbeth would be reasonable again, or——he was free of her.

There was a third possibility.

Countess Miramara had assured him that he could make an enormous fortune if he would go on the stage as a cornet-player. To-morrow she was going off to Bohemia. Suppose he were to join her? He did not trouble himself about desertion: he had got his papers all right, and desertion was not a crime for which one could be extradited. Austria was a big place and a merry; so the countess asserted. And there was Hungary too.

Really that would be the best thing to do.

Next day Henke was over the border. He had already converted all his property into gold, and only took his trumpet with him. In place of his artilleryman's coat he wore a gorgeous fancy uniform, which showed off to the best advantage the excellences of his person. Evening after evening he performed his most admired pieces.

And he became a favourite with all the ladies.

Frau Lisbeth, however, obtained the dissolution of her marriage on the ground of malicious desertion.

At first she thought of furnishing a little shop in the town and setting up a laundry; but Trautvetter begged her rather to go into service for a time.

"Why?" asked she.

He found some difficulty in answering her. At last he came out with:

"I am very fond of you, Frau Lisbeth; and if you could make up your mind to it I should like to ask you if you would have me."

Lisbeth smiled a little, and then said, "You may ask me that now!"

Her voice sounded honest and friendly.

Trautvetter took her hand in his and said: "Then that's all right!"

But she continued gaily and cheerfully: "Besides, in any case, I should have ended by being your mistress."

"Oh, no!" said Trautvetter. "Under certain circumstances I prefer a wife."

Despite the warmth of the August sun, Julie Heppner grew worse day by day; but this was nothing to her in comparison with the burden of mental suffering which almost overwhelmed her.

She watched her husband and sister with a gaze that never faltered. She saw with horror how Ida became less shy of her and abandoned herself more and more to her passion. Nor was this hidden from her husband. He noticed with cynical satisfaction how the young girl's power of resistance diminished. The desired fruit must soon fall into his hands almost of itself.

Soon, under cover of the playful teasing which went on between the sergeant-major and his sister-in-law, even in the presence of the invalid wife, he began to indulge in passionate, lustful touches and covert embraces which brought the blood to the girl's face and made her shiver.

She resented Julie's reproaches with the hard, insensitive egoism of one in love. What! Did this wretched moribund creature still think to claim the man whom she, the fresh, young girl, loved, and who loved her in return?

Julie laughed bitterly to herself. Would it not be best to resign herself to it, to close her eyes, and to await the deliverance of Death?

Oh, no! She could not endure this shameless insult which they both, as it were, hurled in her face. She racked her brain as to how she could revenge herself on them; but in vain. Most terrible of all was it to feel that though still alive she was virtually dead already, as powerless and helpless as a corpse!

Then the worst happened.

The sergeant-major and his sister-in-law were invited to a fete which the military society, "The Fellow-Soldiers of 1870-1," were arranging in memory of the battle of St. Privat.

The programme included music, theatricals, and dancing. Towards evening a fanfare of trumpets summoned the guests to the festival-play. Even in the garden under the lime-trees the heat of the summer sun had been great, and in the confined space of the overcrowded hall it became unbearably intense. The rows of chairs were placed much too close together, in order to accommodate the large audience. Once seated, it was impossible to move; one remained wedged in between one's neighbours.

Shortly before the curtain was raised, Heppner and Ida discovered two empty chairs. The sergeant-major sat down first. The narrow space then left on the neighbouring chair was far too small for the girl's fully-developed hips.

Consequently his sister-in-law was almost sitting on his knee. He felt the warmth of her blood and her firm limbs through her thin cotton skirt. They were pressed close to one another in the darkened room. Drops of sweat gathered on their brows, and their breath came gaspingly and with difficulty. But, as if by mutual consent, they did not move a limb. They were hearing nothing but the voice of their blood, and in the close contact they could distinctly feel the pulse-beats.

Neither of them took in a word of the play which was being performed on the stage.

At last the singing of the National Anthem announced the end of the piece. The spectators breathed sighs of relief and pushed patiently and slowly through the narrow doors out into the evening air of the garden, wiping and fanning their hot faces with their handkerchiefs.

Ida looked pale, and sank down exhausted on a chair. "I would rather go home," she said.

"Why not?" he agreed, and held out her jacket for her to put on. But the girl took it from his hand and hung it over her arm. A rush as of fire streamed through her body, making her skin prick and tingle.

Walking silently side by side they left the restaurant garden.

A house stood half-way up the hill, whence two roads led to the barracks: the high-road down through the valley, and a footpath which led to the little wood at the back of the barracks, and then went on further. Heppner chose the footpath.

The evening had not brought coolness. The leaves hung motionless on the branches. The twilight began to give way to night. The girl felt the tepid breeze like a warm bath on her bare neck and arms.

At the edge of the little wood the pair turned and looked back. The lights of the garden gleamed through the darkness. The noise of the merry-making was hardly audible; only a trumpet and the rumble of a double bass, marking the dance measure, could be heard distinctly.

In the shadow of the trees Heppner put his arm round his sister-in-law's shoulders. She shrank slightly, and shuddered as if at a touch of frost. Pressed closely to each other they walked on slowly, and still in silence. The man's hot hand weighed heavily on the woman's shoulder; his throat was parched; his arms were as if paralysed; he could not turn his head and look her in the face.

They had reached the end of the wood. Fields stretched away on both sides of the path; the darkness of night surrounded them.

In the valley a train was passing. A cloud of sparks streamed from the funnel of the engine; on the dark ground the windows of the lighted carriages threw illuminated squares, which flashed along beside the train and vanished with it in the dim distance of the night. Not a glimmer remained to show the trail of man.

Suddenly the girl stood still, and with a wrench freed her self from the man's arm. She gave a stifled cry, like the wail of one vanquished after a hard struggle—then flung herself on his breast.

After a night of terrifying visions and dreams Julie Heppner had become quieter. She fought against the belief that her horrible suspicions could have become truth. It was too monstrous; they could not have been brutal enough to inflict this last injury on her as she lay dying!

But her doubts became certainties as she observed the altered demeanour of her husband and sister. The restless yearning had vanished. They were more at ease; there was a complete understanding between them; and their glances no longer desired and hungered, but rather told of a happiness already tasted.

From this time the invalid's mind was filled with schemes of vengeance, and she gradually conceived a mad determination to kill the guilty pair. She felt that she had no time to lose. Her life was nearly spent. She could now only take a few tottering steps; and increasing weakness would soon prevent her leaving her bed.

From under her eyelids she watched the girl's every movement. Oh, how she hated her, this healthy, blooming creature, with her splendid stature, her round white arms, and her magnificent bust! How she hated her! Her freshness, her youth, her beauty, her soft young body with which she had seduced the man, which he had caressed!

And Ida never suspected that vengeance was imminent, that death was near her—nearer even than to the dying woman herself!

The sands ran unceasingly through the hour-glass of the nearly expiring life. Constant and violent attacks of coughing kept the invalid from sleep, until the staff-surgeon prescribed morphia for her in fairly large doses. The poor woman was near death; why should not her last days be lightened, her last sufferings relieved? He cautioned the sergeant-major as to the danger of the drug, warning him to be careful in pouring out the doses.

Julie did not know how to praise the staff-surgeon enough; the rest was such a wonderful refreshment. True that on awaking her limbs felt rather heavy; but at the same time she felt the strengthening effect of the long undisturbed night's sleep. Sometimes she even thought she might begin to hope again; and when she felt particularly well she regained a faint desire for life. That would indeed be the most perfect vengeance, if she could live to spite them both, perhaps for years!

Then her illness once more overcame her; she despaired anew, and hourly planned revenge.

One morning, as she lay on her bed in a kind of stupor, she tried to recall the events of the night. Something had happened which she had seen vaguely through the veil of her torpor. Despite her drowsiness, she had been frightened, horrified by it; yet afterwards the incident had vanished from her memory, and now she was endeavouring to bring back the faint trace into consciousness.

It was just before she had fallen completely asleep, when her senses were becoming dulled, and the final action of the morphia was about to set in, that a slight cough had brought her back from the void, partially arousing her. While in this condition she had perceived that Otto, her husband, had softly raised himself in bed. Sitting up he had listened awhile, then had crept cautiously towards her, and had remained standing by her bed for a long time.

Now she remembered: she had been horribly afraid that he would do her some injury; that with his big strong hands he would take her by the throat and strangle her. She was far too weak to resist him; indeed, she had felt that she had not even the strength to cry out. But nothing of this had happened. He had only stood there motionless by her bedside, looking into her face. She had felt his gaze through eyelids that had closed with fatigue. Then she had gradually sunk into sleep; and just at the very last she fancied she had been aware that her husband was moving away from her bed.

She pressed her hands to her brow as if to prevent the thoughts from escaping. She closed her eyes and forced herself to live again through the events of the night. At last they came back to her, and the memory struck her like a stinging lash, so that she cowered on her bed, clutching the coverlet with her hands, and biting her handkerchief to keep herself from shrieking with horror and hatred.

When he left her side her husband had turned towards the door—towards the door beyond which her sister slept. And thus it was that the shameless pair took advantage of that sleep for which she, poor invalid, had been so thankful! Even this relief, this wretched remnant of happiness, they embittered for her!

Never again should the healing, sleep-giving drug cross her lips, to give the opportunity for such abominations! Never! Not if it cost her her life! For that life was no longer worth having.

But stay! She would dissemble; would appear to take the drug and then pretend to go to sleep, in order to gain a chance of revenging herself on the adulterers how, she did not know; but it must be soon. In two days the regiment would be off to the autumn man[oe]uvres, and by that time her vengeance must be consummated; she felt her strength would not last much longer.

On the following morning there was much work and bustle going forward in the battery, as early the next day they were to start for the man[oe]uvres. The sergeant-major had barely time to throw together the few things that he intended to take with him.

"Ida," he shouted through the door, "cut some bread and butter for my breakfast, and send it over to me in the orderly-room."

Julie was as usual on the sofa, which was pushed close up to the table. Her sister was sitting doing some needlework.

Rather annoyed at the interruption Ida got up, and fetched bread and butter out of the kitchen. With a large bread-knife she cut two slices, buttered them, and carried them off.

The bread and the knife had been left lying close to the edge of the table. The knife swayed a moment on the round crust, then it slipped slowly off the loaf, and fell flat upon the rug in which the invalid was wrapped.

At first Julie let it lie there unnoticed; Ida could take it away when she returned. Suddenly, however, an inspiration, as it were, flashed through her mind. It was fate that this knife should have fallen on her sofa; it was to be the instrument of her revenge! She took it quickly in her blanched hand and examined it. It had a sharp, pointed blade, fit to go through flesh and bone; it seemed to have been freshly sharpened. She felt the edge, and in so doing cut her finger slightly. A few drops of blood spurted on to the shining steel, and near them were the marks left by the bread which it had cut. Julie felt as though she could not take her eyes off the blade.

But she heard the outer door close, and swiftly hid the knife under her coverings.

Ida came in, and began to get her own breakfast. She looked about the table.

"Have you the bread-knife, Julie?" she asked. "It was certainly here."

The invalid answered sullenly: "I?—No."

"Didn't you see it lying here, Julie?" Ida asked again. "Just here on the bread?"

"No," replied the invalid, "It wasn't there. I should have seen it if it had been. Perhaps you took it with you to the orderly-room by mistake."

"Perhaps I did," said Ida; and in the afternoon she asked her brother-in-law: "Otto, can you tell me whether I left the bread-knife lying in the orderly-room this morning?"

The sergeant-major answered: "Perhaps so. I'll see." After which nothing more was said about the missing knife.

Julie Heppner felt strangely strong and well as she held the formidable weapon in her hand. Now at last the hour had come in which she would be revenged for years of suffering, and for the accumulated disgrace of her married life. And she regarded her husband and sister with triumphant glances, as two victims who must fall under her hand without chance of escape.

There was so much to pack up and arrange during the evening that no one thought of giving the invalid her morphia.

"Otto, will you give me the medicine?" she requested at last. "I can prepare it for myself."

The sergeant-major started, and glanced at his sister-in-law, smiling cynically. The devil! In all this silly excitement they might have sacrificed the last night before their long separation, if the very person they were deceiving had not herself come to the rescue.

Ida smiled back at him.

He gave the bottle and a spoon to his wife with a "Mind you don't take too much." But he thought to himself, "Perhaps she will take a little more than is ordered, and so sleep the sounder."

Then he went back to his sister-in-law and the packing.

"There!" said Julie, as she held out the spoon. "I believe I did take just a little more than usual. Ida, will you help me to bed? I begin to feel tired already!"

Just then it struck ten o'clock. The tattoo sounded.

"So late already?" exclaimed the sergeant-major. "I must be off at once with this to the baggage-waggon."

He took up his box and turned to go. In the doorway he paused once more and said, "I shall only just go through the battery and then come back to bed, for I must be up betimes in the morning."

The sick woman lay waiting. She had taken the knife with her into the bedroom hidden under her shawl, and now held it grasped convulsively in her hand.

Close by in the sitting-room her sister was bustling about. The door had remained half open, so that her movements and occupations could be plainly perceived from the bedroom. At last she undressed herself hurriedly, as if forced to hasten.

Through the half opened door she called softly into the dark bedroom, "Julie, are you asleep?"

Then again, louder and more insistently, "Julie, are you asleep?"

She stood listening awhile at the door, and then got into bed. The door was still open and the sick woman heard how restlessly she tossed about.

An hour later the sergeant-major opened the outer door. He took his spurred boots off in the corridor, and slipped cautiously into the bedroom.

Once more came a whispered, "Julie, are you asleep?" and the woman felt as if she could have laughed aloud at the fools who let themselves be thus led by the nose.

Heppner stripped his uniform off rapidly. Then he moved again to the side of her bed and listened—as on that other night.

The invalid lay motionless.

The deceived wife suffered the tortures of the damned; and it seemed to her that her agony must be as eternal as hell itself. She clutched so hard at the knife-handle that her nails were driven into her flesh, and she bit her lips until they bled to keep herself from shrieking with frenzy. A thousand times she thought that morning must be breaking; yet still the shameless pair were together.

At last came an end to the horror.

The woman was asleep already when the man left her. She did not reply to the farewell which he whispered to her from the door. Then he lay down, breathing heavily, and in a moment had fallen into a deep sleep.

Julie waited a little while. Then she got up, her husband's snores and heavy breathing drowning the slight noise of her movements. Now she was standing with her bare feet on the boards. She had the knife in her right hand.

Which of the two should she punish first?

She must kill them both, that was certain. But before she died that shameless creature should know the truth. A flood of abusive words, the most obscene and filthy she could conjure up, lay on her tongue. She would shriek them into the ears of her dying victims, would shout for joy, would exult over them! Oh, how she would triumph! After all the shame, after all the sorrow, she would at last remain the conqueror!

She dragged herself along by the bed carefully. With trembling steps she crossed the threshold and went into the sitting-room. The feeble light of breaking day struggled in, just clearly enough to enable her to distinguish things. The room looked dreary, clothing was strewn about, the chairs were out of their places, and the remains of the evening meal were still on the table. A moist heat pervaded this scene of disorder. The suffocating air seemed laden with a sense of the horrible, unnatural crime.

The sick woman staggered. There was a mist before her eyes. But with an effort she pulled herself together and moved towards the bed.

Her sister was asleep, her face hidden by her loosened hair and pressed into the pillow.

Suddenly she stirred, and as she stretched herself slowly the coverlet fell rustling to the ground.

In the dim light her white skin gleamed.

The woman fixed her burning eyes on this beauty. Suddenly a mad smile distorted her lips, and she raised the knife. She would plunge the blade into her sister's adulterous bosom; and thus deal out justice, measure for measure.

But there came a rush of blood to her throat that choked her. She swayed, and grasped at the empty air with clutching fingers. The knife slipped from her relaxing hand and clanged on the floor. The dying woman collapsed with a dull thud.

The sleeping girl turned over lazily.

"Be quiet, Otto!" she murmured.

Suddenly she gave a shriek of horror, rushed into the bedroom, and shook the man, who could hardly be aroused from his sleep.

He followed her, still half dazed.

Julie Heppner lay dead, bathed in her own blood.

The husband and sister gazed at her horror-stricken, and shuddered as they saw the knife lie gleaming near the corpse.

Death had passed over them.

Outside the trumpeter on duty blew the joyful fanfare of the reveille:—



CHAPTER IX

"The bullets are all of iron and lead; But it's not every bullet will strike a man dead." (Old Soldier-song.)

Klaere Guentz was nursing her child. Through the thick drooping branches of the pear-tree the sun shone on the mother's breast and on the infant's little round head. She bent over him with a happy smile, and held him close.

Sheltered on one side by a high wall, and on the other by the thick leafage, the little garden seemed a haven of joy and peace far removed from all turmoil and tumult of the outside world. The stillness of the summer morning reigned unbroken.

A few more sucks, and then, sleepy and satisfied, the little head sank back on its cushion. Klaere laid the baby-boy in his perambulator.

In the heavenly quiet of this secluded corner of the garden, in the presence of her sleeping child, a picture of health, and from whose lusty sucking her breast still ached a little: in the fulness of this bliss she felt so overwhelmed with thankfulness that she could not help shedding a few holy tears of joy over the blessedness of life.

Suddenly she checked herself.

Klaere Guentz did not exactly regard such moments of tender emotion as inadmissible; but one should not give way to feelings of this sort too long. Recognition of great happiness should always manifest itself in cheerful activity. So she sat up, and began stitching energetically.

But the work was almost mechanical. Like Caesar, Klaere Guentz could do two things at once: mend, darn, sew, or anything else of the kind, and think at the same time.

She was anxious about her husband,

Not on account of his health; she tended and cared for him too wisely, with her housewifely watchfulness and love. But he, who usually stood so firmly before the world, was suffering now from inward uncertainty. His moods were unequal; and sometimes the cheerful, determined man would be quite overcome by irresolute depression.

This depression was connected with the service. Klaere had found that out at once. The eternal disputes with a disagreeable superior were probably to blame. For Captain Mohr, who feared a rival and a successor in the senior-lieutenant, opposed tooth and nail every improved regulation that Guentz endeavoured to introduce in the battery, thus causing endless discussion and unpleasantness.

At last Frau Klaere had made a move. She came to the conclusion that she must appeal to the colonel, who at once agreed to her request that Guentz should be transferred, and Klaere was not a little proud of her success. In reality, however, she was only responsible for it in the very smallest degree.

True, Falkenhein had heard her attentively, whereas he usually only listened to ladies out of pure courtesy. He had a very high opinion of this clever, capable woman. But he would have refused even her request without hesitation had he not himself been convinced of the necessity for the measure demanded. The discipline of the fifth battery, loose enough already, suffered more and more from the constant friction between the two officers. He regarded Mohr as a very harmful element in the service. The captain, through some outside influence—a very influential relative of high position, it was said—had managed so far to retain his post; but he, as colonel of the regiment, would see to it that the undesirable officer should receive his dismissal in the spring at latest. And meanwhile Guentz must be transferred from the fifth battery. It fell out conveniently that Wegstetten should be ordered away just then to the Austrian man[oe]uvres. Guentz was put in charge of the sixth battery; and the affair had a perfectly natural appearance, since the command properly fell to the senior-lieutenant of the regiment.

Guentz had no idea of his wife's little intrigue. He assumed his new position with fresh courage, and it seemed to please him; but nevertheless he did not regain his former happy balance.

Something still troubled him; and the young wife, pleased as she was at her successful assumption of the good fairy's part, was again at her wits' end to discover the cause.

The fact was that Guentz felt himself daily less and less satisfied with an officer's career, and he almost began to believe that he had missed his vocation. It was very hard to realise this only after he had devoted the twelve best years of his life to soldiering. But he did not think it was yet too late to make a decisive change, and he was earnestly elaborating a plan to send in his resignation and devote all his time to mastering the technique of engineering, his former favourite study.

He now determined to command the battery for a year, and then to decide definitely whether to adopt this course or no.

On August 15 he took over the command of the sixth battery. He felt easier in the more congenial atmosphere of his new department; yet his full zest for a soldier's life did not return.

Wegstetten's battery seemed to be in excellent order; the only exception being Lieutenant Landsberg. That young man had positively raved with joy when Wegstetten's temporary absence was announced. The captain's hand had pressed heavily on him, and Landsberg thought that now he would be able to live his life more as he pleased. Senior-lieutenant Guentz, who was to be in command, was after all virtually his equal, and it was quite impossible that he should be as strict about duty as the full-blown captain of a battery.

So he at once began to behave with a self-satisfied independence which under Wegstetten's rule would have been regarded simply as high treason. He did not appear punctually on parade, and sometimes he would remain away altogether, even when it was his week to be on duty.

But Guentz shook off his doubts and depression of spirits, and said to Reimers:

"Look here, my boy, I shall have to make that Landsberg eat humble-pie; there's more than one way of doing it. The worst of it is, though, that the fellow is not an exception, but just a representative of the whole species of decorative officers; and in the end it will be little enough use if one of them is brought to book for once in a way. Directly a more lenient officer is in command the whole thing will begin over again. And just consider the prospect, my dear boy; if this slack, unenthusiastic crew increases in number, what will happen then? Now and then, perhaps, one of them gains a little sense by the time he is promoted to captain. With the greater number the chances are that during the ten or more years that they are subalterns, utter superficiality will have become their rule in life; from which, despite responsibility, they are unable to break loose, and according to which, therefore, they act. Then, when they are found to be good for nothing, they are either retired, and eat the unearned bread of pensioners (unearned, of course, only in such cases as theirs), or, if they have a cousin or great-uncle anywhere, who can put in a good word for them, or if they belong to the best families, or if they are very religious—why, then God Almighty intervenes, and the scandal waxes still grosser; for the useless captains become staff-officers."

Reimers tried to reply, but Guentz waived off his objection with an impatient gesture, and continued: "As to the young officer of whom we are speaking, the disinclination which he manifests for the actual duties of his profession is a fact, and, unfortunately distinctly typical. I assure you that most of our lieutenants look at their life and work from the point of view of mere schoolboys. They lounge about, do just the duty they are positively obliged to do, laugh in their sleeves if they get rowed, and swear at every short hour demanded by the service. Nothing but continuous lazing! Then in the end, every one who has not been arrested for some piece of sheer stupidity is made captain,—of course always supposing he has not been positively dishonest, or done something criminal."

Reimers interrupted him: "Come, you know, the thing's not quite so simple as all that!"

But Guentz replied: "Oh yes, it is! To master the elementary formulae according to which the service is regulated, sufficiently to satisfy the mere requirements of inspection—that is child's play. And yet on that the superior has to found his judgment! But to work them out so thoroughly that one has them at one's finger-ends at any moment and on every emergency (for that alone can prove their efficiency) that is really difficult, demanding long and exhaustive study. And who has the patience or the inclination to do it? Everything is sacrificed to making a good show at the reviews. If only one has been able to cut a good figure then, one has got out of it well! A teacher must have good and bad pupils in his class, of course; but woe to the commander of a battery who is disgraced by having a bad officer under him! He has not been able to educate him! So, instead of an incapable man being got rid of when he deserves it, an enormous amount of pains and trouble is wasted on him—absolutely wasted! Disgusting love of show! Instead of our holding forth everlastingly to these young people about upholding the honour of their position in the eyes of the world, they should rather have it brought home to them that they ought to win their own self-respect by honest and conscientious attention to duty."

"You exaggerate!" murmured Reimers.

"I wish indeed that I did!" rejoined Guentz. "But just you go to every individual brother-subaltern and say: Is drilling recruits a pleasure to you? Do you get up early, determined to work hard all day and to endeavour to train good soldiers for the king? or, do you on awakening growl that the devil may take the whole dirty pack of recruits?"

"Why don't you rather ask with what thoughts they awake during gun-practice and the man[oe]uvres?"

"Because the one depends upon the other, my dear fellow. Without the training of recruits there would be no gun-practice and no man[oe]uvres. It is just as if we were military teachers. Well, gun-practice is to a certain extent an examination for the men; while the man[oe]uvres, as you know, don't teach the men anything new, but are rather a test for the higher officers. But the teacher who only wants to make a show at the examination, and who does not expend all the enthusiasm and inspiration of his calling upon the teaching itself,—I have no use for him!"

"You really are unjust!" exclaimed Reimers.

"Well, perhaps so——"

"You see, you allow it yourself!"

"But in a different way from what you mean. I say that the subalterns themselves are only in part answerable for their faults, the other part of the responsibility is borne by the entire system."

"What system?"

"Why, the system of our entire army service, of our military education."

"Has it not been tested in three campaigns?"

Guentz was silent for a time, and then he answered, turning away: "Yes, certainly. But you are not unaware of the fact that a system can go on being tested until the moment when it collapses?"

"And anyhow," he continued, "all this refers to private thoughts of my own, about which I can't tell you just yet. I am now going to make the final experiment, and then I shall have to decide."

"What?"

"Whether I remain an officer or not."

This struck Reimers like a blow. "Guentz, you are mad!" he cried.

His friend shook his head gravely, and said, "We shall see."

Meanwhile, Guentz coolly took up the glove which Landsberg in his presumption had thrown down. He had decided that, if possible, he would only meet the young man's impudence with the weapons which stood at his command as the head of the battery.

One day Guentz had ordered Landsberg to superintend the checking of the stores ordered by the regiment, and found him instead fast asleep and carefully covered up on a sofa. This was a gross breach of duty; for according to the rules the officer in charge should have himself supervised the checking of the stores by one of the sergeants. But this was not all; Landsberg had had gunners posted on the watch, so that he should not be surprised by his commanding officer, and that was misappropriation of the service staff.

When called to order, he coolly excused himself: "I beg your pardon, sir; but I really thought it could not matter much about a few dozen horseshoe nails more or less."

Guentz felt it would have been trouble wasted to explain to the lieutenant how it was perfectly possible that the lack of "a few dozen horseshoe nails" might be the cause of a battery's immobility in time of need. He simply rebuked him briefly and sharply.

Landsberg took the punishment in strictly correct style. But a most unreasonable anger gleamed in his eyes. He made up his mind in all seriousness that he would complain of Guentz, and tried to get his fellow-subaltern, Reimers, to associate himself with him. Reimers, however, refused politely and decidedly, and moreover spoke to Landsberg for his good, strongly advising him to submit to discipline and amend his behaviour.

Landsberg was apparently convinced, and for a time his behaviour rarely gave occasion for blame. But in the circle of the younger officers he let fall dark insinuations that he would be revenged for the "insult" which the hateful martinet Guentz had inflicted on him. He gradually worked up a genuine hatred of Guentz, and this hatred took an important place in his previously empty life. He vowed Guentz must stand in front of his pistol, even if it cost him his officer's sword-knot. With every reprimand this fury increased, till Landsberg determined to pick a quarrel with Guentz and somehow positively insult him, when a duel would be unavoidable.

At last an accident brought things to a climax.

The officers of the second division of the regiment were in the habit of going occasionally to the Auer, a lonely forest tavern, during the summer months, to play skittles. The Auer was about an hour's distance from the garrison, and lay nearly in the middle of the pine forest, which extended over the mountains and beyond the frontier. The younger men bicycled there and back, while their elders either rode or drove. Major Schrader arranged these excursions, and bore the expenses himself. They were partly intended to provide opportunities for personal intercourse between him and his officers.

He declared himself a lover of rural life, and the party always fell in with country ways quite contentedly. Pilsener beer was the tipple, or, at most, a little brandy or gin; and in the way of food, fresh eggs and butter, black country bread and strong ham, played the principal parts. Scandal-mongers of course wanted to know whether, the Auer's landlady had been a former sweetheart of the major's, and Schrader defended himself laughingly against the insinuation; although he need not have been ashamed of the dignified, buxom woman, so scrupulously neat and clean. It certainly was a fact that no one ever saw the landlord of the Auer, and that the landlady's two smart boys, who helped so cheerfully in picking up the skittles, bore a striking resemblance to the major.

It was in the courtyard of the Auer tavern, when, after one of these excursions of Major Schrader's, they were getting their bicycles out of the shed, that Landsberg's rancour broke out.

He had not been thinking about his grievances at the moment. He had preferred a stronger drink than the light beer, had almost emptied a half bottle of gin, and was more inclined for sleep than for anything else, so that he did not find his bicycle quickly. Guentz made some harmless chaffing remark, and a violent quarrel broke out.

Finally Guentz turned away, shrugging his shoulders. He considered that Landsberg was drunk. But the lieutenant suddenly ran after him and aimed a blow at him, striking him on the arm. The other men at once threw themselves between the two, and held Landsberg fast. The young fellow, perfectly mad with rage, kicked out with his feet and literally foamed at the mouth.

Schrader had him taken home in a carriage by his adjutant and Captain Madelung. To Reimers he said: "My dear Reimers, you will see that your friend Guentz goes home quietly, won't you?" And Reimers replied: "Yes, sir."

Guentz signed to his friend to remain behind. From the dark skittle-alley they could watch their comrades starting for the town, all much depressed by the untoward occurrence, speaking in undertones, and accompanying their whispered words with restrained gestures.

For a few minutes Guentz walked silently up and down the gravel-strewn skittle-alley. Reimers sat down in a small arbour, where the empty barrel still lay upon a bed of ice. When Guentz stood still, Reimers could hear the drops of the melting ice falling into the earthen basin. Otherwise all was silent, until the steps on the crunching gravel approached once more.

"I think we can go now," said Guentz, in his calm voice, which only sounded a little harder than usual.

Reimers answered: "All right, if you like."

"Yes. Let us go."

In the courtyard the senior-lieutenant suddenly stood still. "The devil! I am horribly thirsty!" he said, clearing his throat.

"Shall I fetch you a glass of beer from the bar?" suggested Reimers.

"No, don't bother. Water will do me more good," replied Guentz.

He returned to the arbour, fetched a glass, and went to the well. The pump creaked discordantly in the stillness of the night.

In the moonlight Reimers saw how his friend drank the clear water with eager gulps, filled the glass again, and again emptied it.

Then they went towards the shed in which the bicycles had been stored.

"That was delicious water," said Guentz, with a sigh of satisfaction. "The strength of the forest and of the earth!"

The shed was badly lighted by a miserable oil lamp. The two machines were leaning against the wall. Outside was a third—Landsberg's. Guentz pushed it in under cover.

"It would be a pity," he said, "for the night dew to spoil the nickel."

They wheeled their bicycles slowly through the gate, and as they were starting Guentz said: "Look here, dear boy; will you go to Landsberg early to-morrow morning and take him a challenge? I will see about the announcement to the court of honour myself."

Reimers answered simply, "Yes." And then he added: "But what are the conditions?"

The senior-lieutenant considered for a moment.

"Oh, well," he said at last, "the court of honour will decide as to that. Meanwhile, say fifteen paces, and three exchanges of shots."

"Right."

"Well, off then! But look out, it's horribly dark."

The two friends rode in silence until they reached the garden gate of Guentz's house. The senior-lieutenant would have said a mere brief farewell, but Reimers held him fast.

"Guentz," he said, "I can't help thinking that a challenge on grounds connected with the service is incorrect. And—I believe that it is so in the present instance."

"Yes," replied Guentz, "the private reason is undoubtedly connected with the service. Landsberg wishes to revenge himself because I reprimanded him sharply. But overtly the affair has arisen quite otherwise. I have no alternative but to challenge him."

"Yes, you are right," acknowledged Reimers. He stood awhile leaning against his bicycle, deep in thought, until Guentz pressed his hand, and said, "Good night, dear boy!"

And Reimers answered, "Good-night, my dear Guentz." Guentz put his bicycle carefully away, and then quietly went upstairs. During the summer months, when his duty sometimes began at five o'clock or even earlier, he occupied a small bedroom next to the larger one in which his wife and child slept. But the door of communication between the two rooms was always open.

In a few rapid movements he took off his sword and his spurred boots. Then he went to the door of the bedroom and listened in the darkness. A slight breeze came from the garden and moved the lowered window-blind with the regularity of a pendulum. Somewhere in the grass a cricket was chirping; and through the slight noises the deep contented breathing of the two sleepers could be heard, slow and deep the mother's, and the child's soft and light.

Guentz leant against the lintel and listened lovingly to the sweet, regular sounds. This room contained a world of happiness for him; and the breathing of his sleeping dear ones was to him the most priceless music.

Suddenly he shivered in the warm August air. An over-powering fatigue almost paralysed his limbs, and one single horrible thought filled his mind.

Wearily he pulled off his clothes, and was soon wrapped in heavy sleep.

The court of honour endorsed the challenge but it modified the terms, arranging that instead of three interchanges of shots there should be two, at fifteen paces. The duel was to take place early the next morning, at half-past five, on the pistol-practice ground of the regiment.

After Reimers had presented the challenge to Landsberg, he made all the necessary arrangements to act as his friend's second. He whispered the time and the place to Guentz while at the table in the orderly-room signing despatches.

The senior-lieutenant nodded curtly, and answered: "Right; I'll speak to you later."

Sergeant-major Heppner approached him, and said: "At what time to-morrow morning do you wish the battery to be ready for the tactical exercises, sir?"

Guentz was at once on the spot. He signed the order and leant back.

"To-morrow? H'm!" he murmured.

The duel was to take place at half-past five. He considered; in a quarter of an hour one could easily cover the short distance between the shooting-ground and the barracks.

"Six sharp," he then answered decisively.

Heppner replied: "Yes, sir, six o'clock;" and wrote the time in the order-book.

"Yes, six o'clock," repeated Guentz.

If it were no longer possible for him, then Reimers would command the battery.

It was Wednesday, the day on which Reimers was engaged to dine with the Guentzes. He would have excused himself, so that his friend should devote himself undisturbed to his wife and child, but Guentz refused: "Nothing of the kind, my boy. Why, Klaere might smell a rat! No, no! you must come. But you'll have to put on another expression, you know!"

So Reimers went, but left unusually early, and when he returned to his quarters Gaehler handed him a letter from Falkenhein.

The colonel wrote as follows:

"MY DEAR REIMERS,—I return from Kuehren about eleven o'clock, and I beg of you to look me up this evening without fail. "Yours, "v. F."

Here was a glimmer of hope! Perhaps this wretched duel might yet be avoided! The colonel of a regiment had in certain cases the right to suspend the judgment of the court of honour, and to refer the matter directly to the throne for a decision.

Frankly, Reimers could not think on what, in this case, such interference could be based. The affair seemed just as clear and distinct as could well be; a verbal quarrel whence resulted the actual insult, which, though not serious, left not the smallest loophole for a revocation. The duel seemed utterly inevitable.

Falkenhein was already waiting for him. The firm, clear-headed man was in a state of almost feverish excitement. He walked restlessly up and down the room, constantly buttoning and unbuttoning a button of his coat.

"Thank you for coming, my dear Reimers," he said in a voice of forced steadiness, and speaking in jerky sentences. "Tell me, you are his second to-morrow, are you not?"

"Yes, sir," answered Reimers.

"It is a good thing that you will be there. Yes, it is a good thing. I—I felt I must speak to you about it. It is true that a commander should come to his decisions alone, and I have done that—but now I must speak to some-one. I have not been to Kuehren; I sent the carriage away, and have been walking in the forest for a long time, and alone. This duel—it is a mistake, a terrible mistake; that's certain. But my hands are tied. I can do nothing to prevent it. And yet if things go badly, I shall be partially responsible. My best officer, one of the best, most excellent of men, against a lazy ne'er-do-weel! God knows that laws are sometimes utterly unreasonable, and many of our ideas are equally senseless. I have racked my brains to find a way out of this difficulty, and it seems impossible. I know that Landsberg's real reason is military antagonism; but despite that, I dare not interfere."

The colonel stopped suddenly right in front of the lieu-tenant, and looking him squarely in the eyes, asked: "Do you really think that Guentz's honour is affected?"

Reimers was silent. A "yes" seemed to him quite contrary to reason, and yet he could not say "no."

Falkenhein had again begun to walk up and down the room, not awaiting a reply.

At last he turned again to Reimers.

"Well, the matter must take its course," he said, in a somewhat calmer tone. "One thing, however, I ask you to do for me. Directly all is over to-morrow, will you come and tell me—quite privately? I shall hear officially from Kauerhof. He's to be umpire, isn't he? And be quick, won't you, even if all has gone well?—a 'three-cross' ride!"[A]

[Footnote A: The necessary speed in conveying military despatches is indicated by crosses. Thus, one cross signifies walking and trotting alternately; two crosses, a quick trot; and three crosses, as fast as the strength of the horse will permit.]

He held the lieutenant's hand in his, and pressed it warmly. His depression seemed to have partly passed away.

"But you must not break your neck," he concluded, smiling slightly. "And now let us hope for a happy meeting!"

In passing Reimers glanced at the Guentzes' villa. It was all in darkness, save for the window of his friend's study on the ground floor, whence a light was still gleaming.

Within, Guentz sat at his writing-table, with several sheets of paper lying before him. For more than an hour he had been staring at the white sheets and reflecting.

Shortly after ten Klaere had fed her baby; and then, the sleeping child tenderly clasped in her arms, she had gone up-stairs. Her husband had watched her through the half-open door, and the nursery-lullaby with which she hummed the child to sleep sounded in his ears for long after.

Now he sat there, not knowing whether he would ever again see his wife's honest, sensible eyes, or the droll, wondering gaze of his child.

A hard battle was going on within him, and once or twice he raised his hand as if to push a heavy weight from his brow.

The cuckoo-clock in the corner by the stove cuckooed twelve times, and then from without sounded the deep, full tone of the parish-church clock. The new day had begun.

With a strong effort Guentz raised himself, bent over the white leaves, and with swift-moving pen filled page after page.

He had decided to send in his resignation.

The request should go up to the regiment before the duel, and now he was explaining to Reimers the reasons which had decided him to take this sudden step. To Reimers alone. But if he wished he might show the letter to the colonel. The opinion of any one else was immaterial to him.

At the outset he begged his friend not to think that he had withdrawn from the duel out of cowardice. He could point to his whole previous life in support of this—the life of a quiet, resolute man, always consistent with his principles. And, after all, Reimers knew and trusted him.

This duel was utterly senseless, brought about as it had been by a laughably trivial occurrence; and, moreover, it was in the highest degree unfair, despite the fact that both duellists would face each other under similar conditions, with similar weapons, and with the same sun and the same wind. It was unfair, because the stakes were of such totally unequal value. A man in his prime, who had done good work in his profession and promised to do still more, must pit himself against an irresponsible young fellow, who up to the present had shirked everything serious. And then Guentz's position as husband and father must be compared with his opponent's irregular life. An absolute cypher was opposed to a number that counted; and, moreover, to a number doubled in its capacity.

Guentz said roundly that he regarded his life as too valuable to be thrown into the balance of this quarrel.

Then he went more into detail with regard to the doubts which for weeks had been harassing him and driving him towards the decision to renounce his right to wear the uniform of an officer; the strong doubts as to whether, under existing conditions, German officers were not undertaking work of no benefit to the future.

He did not mean to say that the calling of an officer was an altogether unproductive vocation. The yearly training of a large number of soldiers, who supported the credit of the kingdom, and thereby insured peace, was, no doubt, a positive factor in both political and social life.

But was this bulwark, which year by year was rebuilt and strengthened anew, really secure enough to withstand storms and assaults?

That was just what he doubted.

The organisation of the German army rested on foundations which had been laid nearly a hundred years ago. Prussian institutions, tested by many victories, had been transferred to the new empire, and were still continued. Since the great war they had never seriously been put to the proof; and during the three last decades they had only been altered in the most trifling details. In three long decades! And in one of those decades the world at large had advanced as much as in the whole previous century!

The system of the military training of the men, evolved in an age of patriarchal bureaucratic government, had remained pedantically the same, counting on an ever-present patriotism. Meanwhile, in place of the previous overwhelming preponderance of country recruits, a fresh element had now been introduced: the strong social-democratic tendencies of the industrial workers, who, it is true, did not compose the majority of the contingents, but who, with their highly-developed intelligence, always exerted a very powerful influence.

Now, instead of turning this highly-developed intelligence to good account, they bound it hand and foot on the rack of an everlasting drill, which could not have been more soullessly mechanical in the time of Frederick the Great. And they expected this purely mechanical drill to hold together men from whom all joyful spontaneity was taken by the stiff, wooden formalism of their duty, and not a few of whom cherished the very opposite of patriotism in their breasts! Drill was to maintain discipline among them? It held them together as an iron hoop holds together a cask, the dry staves of which would fall asunder at the first kick!

Confronting the men stood their officers, who, although many of them actuated by the most honourable intentions, were quite incompetent to guide the recruits to a convinced and conscious obedience, a voluntary patriotism. The officer, as a consequence of his origin or education, was separated by a veritable abyss from the sensations and thoughts of the common soldier; and, on the other hand, the soldier was unable to understand the spirit in which he was treated by the officer. It thus came about that the officer for the most part had a pretty low opinion of the privates, while the private did not fail to form his own conclusions as to the officers.

The constancy with which the German corps of officers clung to the old principles of army organisation was worthy of a better cause. Pinning their faith to their glorious traditions, all criticism was set down as malicious gossip, even if it came from their own midst. To an ideal of such doubtful value they devoted their industry and strength. And it was strange how little the analogy of the miserable year 1806 shook military self-confidence, despite the startling points of resemblance. Now, as then, the complaint was of the one-sided reactionary training of the officers, which must separate them from the forward movement of the people; now, as then, there was a kind of hidebound narrow-mindedness, too often degenerating into overweening self-conceit, making them a laughing-stock to civilians; and, finally, now as then, there were the same stiff, wooden regulations, the mechanical drill, which, despite all personal bravery, failed utterly before the convinced enthusiastic onrush of the revolutionary army. But worse than defeat in battles was the cowardly capitulation of strongholds which ensued. The commanders of those days certainly understood how to command the evolutions of a battalion, how to direct a parade march, and how to ensure that all pigtails were of the regulation length; but despite all the drill and all the pedantry, they remained strangers to the inspiration which inaugurated a new era of military service—the new patriotism, the love of one's country. They had stood in a strongly personal relationship to their king but it no longer sufficed to save them. They had shouted "Long live the king!" thousands of times; yet they betrayed the king when they presumed he had lost because they knew no better.

They had played too long at being soldiers to be able really to be soldiers.

Subsequently such men as Scharnhorst, Boyen, and Gneisenau directed the military service into the new paths of allegiance to the nation; a work which was crowned by the unexampled successes of the years 1870-71. But since that epoch, while the foundation of the system—the people themselves—had with each new year altered and progressed in every relation of life, yet the system itself had remained unchanged, and the German officer's devotion to duty, similarly unchanged, was largely wasted by being directed into worn-out channels.

Again, it must be deeply deplored that promotions were no longer due to military efficiency alone, but also to victories achieved at the courts of princes. To this circumstance, opening up, as it did, an anything but reassuring view of the good faith of the authorities, was to be added yet another, also tending to undermine the soundness of the army: the ever-increasing luxury apparent in military circles. Of necessity, and in the true interests of the army, the best material in the corps of officers—the members of the old noble and gentle "army nobility"—were careful to shun this vice. These officers, whose families had often served the king as soldiers for four or five generations, held fast to a Spartan simplicity of life, and to the old Prussian independence of material comforts, and with them were all those who regarded their vocation as something loftier than an amusement. Otherwise, a most unsoldierlike luxury was spreading unhindered in all directions, causing the young subalterns especially to neglect their duties, and rendering them in great measure absolutely unfit for real hard work and privations. And despite the numerous orders levelled against them, these tendencies continued to increase, because of the lack of a good example in high quarters.

The plain and simple uniform in which so many great victories had been won no longer sufficed. New embellishments medals, cords, trimmings, or what not were eternally being devised. As though such mere external trumpery could create anew the now waning love for military service!

In what striking contrast stood the magnificent goblets of delicate porcelain and other costly materials, in which the officers of the Chinese Expedition offered champagne to their French comrades, to that broken-footed glass cup out of which—and in abominably bad wine—King William drank to the victors of St. Privat!

All became clear to Guentz as he wrote, and he felt as though a heavy burden were being lifted from his shoulders.

He concluded: "I can no longer regard as valuable the work which as an officer it is my duty to perform, and have therefore decided to resign my commission. Although I am only one small wheel in a large and complicated machine, I have still the right to give my opinion; and I am making use of that right because I recognise that the mechanical power which drives this machine is threatened with paralysis, and will, in my view, infallibly succumb unless there is an entire reconstruction of the whole fabric. That, I fear, is not to be expected within any reasonable time."

He laid down his pen, and looked thoughtfully at the closely written sheets.

Everything that he had set down had been well considered and frequently thought over; but was it right, after all, to send in his application just at this moment? Was it right for him to break the vow he had made to himself that he would test himself carefully, that he would pass a year in command of the battery before making his final decision? Ought he not to stand by the calling to which his life had been dedicated, until he could resign quite voluntarily, fully convinced, and without any extraneous considerations? Without, for instance, the danger of losing his life through the custom of this calling—a custom, just or unjust, but which at any rate was in operation and perfectly well known to him?

The lamp under the green shade began to burn less brightly, and flickered with a quick hissing sound. The hands of the cuckoo-clock pointed to half-past four.

Guentz got up and stretched himself. He walked firmly to the window, pushed the curtains far back, and opened both sides of the casement.