one way yet. He
could make the corpse less unaccountable. He could create a hill of
corpses to cover this one. In twenty minutes eight hundred English
soldiers were marching down to their death."

The warmer glow behind the black winter wood grew richer and brighter,
and Flambeau strode on to reach it. Father Brown also quickened his
stride; but he seemed merely absorbed in his tale.

"Such was the valour of that English thousand, and such the genius of
their commander, that if they had at once attacked the hill, even their
mad march might have met some luck. But the evil mind that played with
them like pawns had other aims and reasons. They must remain in the
marshes by the bridge at least till British corpses should be a
common sight there. Then for the last grand scene; the silver-haired
soldier-saint would give up his shattered sword to save further
slaughter. Oh, it was well organised for an impromptu. But I think (I
cannot prove), I think that it was while they stuck there in the bloody
mire that someone doubted--and someone guessed."

He was mute a moment, and then said: "There is a voice from nowhere that
tells me the man who guessed was the lover... the man to wed the old
man's child."

"But what about Olivier and the hanging?" asked Flambeau.

"Olivier, partly from chivalry, partly from policy, seldom encumbered
his march with captives," explained the narrator. "He released everybody
in most cases. He released everybody in this case."

"Everybody but the general," said the tall man.

"Everybody," said the priest.

Flambeau knit his black brows. "I don't grasp it all yet," he said.

"There is another picture, Flambeau," said Brown in his more mystical
undertone. "I can't prove it; but I can do more--I can see it. There is
a camp breaking up on the bare, torrid hills at morning, and Brazilian
uniforms massed in blocks and columns to march. There is the red
shirt and long black beard of Olivier, which blows as he stands, his
broad-brimmed hat in his hand. He is saying farewell to the great enemy
he is setting free--the simple, snow-headed English veteran, who
thanks him in the name of his men. The English remnant stand behind
at attention; beside them are stores and vehicles for the retreat.
The drums roll; the Brazilians are moving; the English are still like
statues. So they abide till the last hum and flash of the enemy have
faded from the tropic horizon. Then they alter their postures all at
once,