burned to the ground
by order of the Bavarian colonel, Von Fosbender.

Paul Herter had not been in love with his wife. There was a mystery
about the marriage, but her fate filled him with rage and horror. His
mother he had adored, and the news of her martyrdom came near to driving
him insane. In the madness of grief he vowed vengeance against all
Bavarians who might fall into his hands.

He was fighting then in the Legion; but shortly after he was gravely
wounded. His left foot had to be amputated; and from serving France as a
soldier, he began to serve as a surgeon. He developed astonishing skill
in throat and chest operations, succeeding in some which older and more
experienced men refused to attempt. Months passed, and into his busy
life had never come the wished-for chance of vengeance; but all who knew
him knew that Herter's hatred of Bavarians was an obsession. He was not
one who would forget; and when a lot of seriously wounded Bavarians came
into the field-hospital where he was at work, the two young doctors
under him looked one another in the eyes. Even the stretcher-bearers had
heard of Herter's vow, but there was nothing to do save to bring in the
stream of wounded, and trust the calm instinct of the surgeon to control
the hot blood of the man. Still, the air was electric with suspense, and
heavy with dread of some vague tragedy: disgrace for the hospital, ruin
for Herter.

But the Jewish surgeon (he wasn't called "the Wandering Jew" in those
days) caught the telepathic message of fear, and laughed grimly at what
men were thinking of him. "You need not be afraid," he said to his
assistants. "These _canaille_ are sacred for me. They do not count as
Bavarians."

Nevertheless, the young doctors would have tended the wounded prisoners
themselves, leaving Herter to care for his countrymen alone. But one of
the Bavarians was beyond their skill: a young lieutenant. His wound was
precisely "Herter's specialty"--a bullet lodged in the heart, if he was
to be saved, Herter alone could save him. Would Herter operate? He had
only to say the case was hopeless, and refuse to waste upon it time
needed for others.

Perhaps he knew what suspicion would dog him through life if he gave
this verdict. At all events, he chose to operate. "Bring me the brute,"
he growled: and reluctantly the brute was brought--a very youthful
brute, with a face of such angelic charm that even Herter was struck by
it. He had steeled himself to