he last time he had been here, years before--well, not
really so many years before, only four years, and yet it seemed like a
recollection of his boyhood. He paused inside the threshold to remove
his cloak. A hand, with a curious lack of duplication to it, stretched
itself forward. The Maimed Man turned abruptly to see a servant with one
arm bowing toward him. For a moment he paused, and then:

"'You are wounded?' he asked, and, although nothing was further from his
desire, his voice had in it a little rasping sound; anger it seemed,
although it might very well have been fear.

"The man turned a brick-red. He had never quite been able to recover
from the feeling that in some way to be crippled was a shameful thing.
He had been very strong before.

"'At Liege, your Majesty,' he murmured. 'In the first year.'

"'Always the left arm,' said The Maimed Man. 'Always the left. It seems
always so.' But now he was angry. He turned to one of his suite. 'Can I
not escape such things even here?' he asked. He went up without further
words to his rooms. From his study a long door of glass opened onto a
balcony. He remembered the balcony well. He opened the door and stepped
out. The twilight had gone now. The night was very still and touched
with a hint of crispness. Stars were beginning to show themselves. The
black pines that came down to the edge of the clearing were like a great
hidden army."

There was a little pause.

"And so," said the voice, "I can come now almost at once to the first of
the two incidents I wish to tell you. I choose only two because there is
no need of more. Two will do. And I shall call the first 'The story of
the leaves that marched.'

"The warm days still held, and at the hunting-lodge there was much
planning to keep things moving and every one busy and content. But
secret planning, you understand. The Maimed Man is not an easy person
for whom to plan unless he thinks that he has the final decision
himself. There were rides and drives and picnics and, in the afternoons,
usually a long walk, in which the older and stouter members of the suite
either stayed at home or else followed painfully in the rear of their
more active companions. The Maimed Man is a difficult person to keep up
with; he walks very fast across country, swinging his stick, choosing,
it would seem, the roughest ways. It is almost as if he wished to rid
himself of others; and he is inordinately proud of his own activity. It
was a cu