h he has
to convey tidings of his own defeat. Want of success is so linked
and bound up with want of merit, that every line, every word, seems a
self-accusation.

However inevitable a mishap might appear to any witnessing it, a mere
reader of the account might suggest fifty expedients to escape it. He
knew, besides, the soldierlike contempt entertained in the service for
all attacks of undisciplined forces, and how no party, however small, of
"regulars" was esteemed insufficient to cope with a mob of peasants
or villagers. Any contradiction to so acknowledged a theory would be
received with loud reprobation, and, whatever came of it, the most
inevitable result would be the professional ruin of him unlucky enough
to incur such a failure.

"There's an end of the career of the Lieutenant von Dalton," said Frank,
as he concluded the paper. "Neither his uncle, the Field-Marshal, nor
his sister, the Princess, will have favor enough to cover delinquency
like this." It did, indeed, seem a most humiliating avowal, and probably
his own depressed state gave even a sadder coloring to the narrative. He
accompanied this despatch by a few lines to the Count, his grand-uncle,
which, if apologetic, were manly and straightforward; and, while bearing
a high testimony to Ravitzky's conduct, took all the blame of failure to
himself alone.

He would gladly have lain down to rest when this last was completed, but
the cadet pressed eagerly for his services, and the letter to Walstein
must be written at once.

"The surgeon tells me that there is internal bleeding," said he, "and
that, should it return with any degree of violence, all chance of
recovery is hopeless. Let us look the danger boldly in the face, then,
Dalton; and, while I have the time, let me tell Walstein all that I have
learned since we parted. The letter I will confide to your safe keeping
till such time as it can be forwarded without risk of discovery."

"Is there necessity for such precaution?" asked Frank.

"Can you ask me the question?"

"Then how am I to write it?" said he.

"Simply from my dictation," replied the other, calmly. "The sentiments
will not be yours, but mine. The mere act of the pen, for which these
fingers are too weak, can never wound the susceptibility of even _your_
loyalty. You are not satisfied with this?"

Frank shook his head dubiously.

"Then leave me where I am. I ask no companionship, nor friendship
either,--or, if you prefer it, hasten