rashness nor
recklessness. Jack, life has begun with you; with me it has come to an
end. When there is nothing more to live for, it is time to die. But
how? That is the question. A war would be a God-send; but these
so-called war lords are a lazy lot, or cowardly, or both. Had I a
regiment, what a death! Jack, do you not know what it is to fight the
invisible death? Imagine yourself on the line, with the enemy
thundering toward you, sabres flashing in the sunlight, and lead
singing about your ears. It is the only place in the world to die--on
a battlefield. Fear passes away as a cloud from the face of the sun.
The enemy is bringing you glory--or death. Yes, I would give a good
deal for a regiment, and a bad moment for our side. But the regiment
non est; still, there is left--"

"Dan, what are you talking about?" I cried.

"Death; grim, gaunt and gray death, whose footstep is as noiseless as
the fall of snow; death, the silent one, as the Indian calls him."

He knocked the ash from his pipe and stuffed the briar into his pocket.

"Jack, I am weary of it all. If I cannot die artistically, I wish to
die a sudden and awful death. What! Do I look like a man to die in
bed, in the inebriates' ward? For surely I shall land there soon! I
am going to pieces like a sand house in a wind storm. I suppose I'm
talking nonsense. After all, I haven't as much to say as I thought I
had. Suppose we turn in? I'm tired. You see, those fellows moved me
around to-day."

CHAPTER XIII

Hillars and I stood in the middle of the road. He held the binoculars.

"How many can you make out?" I asked.

"Four; all on horseback. There's a coach of some sort following on
behind. But everything is blurred and my hand trembles; the whiskey
here is terrible. Here, look for yourself," handing the glasses to me.
"Tell me what you see."

"There's one with a white cap--ah, it is Count von Walden! There are
two soldiers in the Hohenphalian uniform; cavalry. I do not know who
the fourth fellow is."

"Describe him to me," said Hillars, trying to roll a cigarette with his
trembling fingers. "Curse it!" throwing away the rice paper, "I've got
so bad that I can't roll a cigarette. Well, what's he look like?"

"He's in civilian dress; little black mustache and an imperial."

"Look anything like Napoleon III?"

"You've hit it. Who is he?"

"They say he's Prince Ernst of Wortumborg," said Hillars; "but it is my
opini