er, was an altogether different matter, and this big,
hulking German happened to be Max's senior by a very slender margin.
So slender, indeed, that the position was almost doubtful. Indeed, at
that moment neither Max nor this big German could say which of the two
was the senior in rank, and entitled to command this party, though it
happened that the bigger of the two was not a Brandenburger, but
belonging to some other corps, who had by chance fallen in with the
party told off to attack the fort of Douaumont, and so found himself
amidst its captors. For a moment, then, the two regarded one another,
Max flaming with anger, defiant, on the point of abruptly ordering this
hulking individual to mind his own business. And then that sense of
discretion which had helped him in the past came to his assistance, and
he forced a smile--an unwilling smile--while his eyes flashed a
vengeful glance at his opponent.

"Then you object?" he asked sharply. "Well, then, let it be one--the
prisoner of war. We will shoot him, and get it over quickly.
Sergeant, march the firing-party forward, I will give the word to
shoot."

Still shaken, his head swimming yet after that struggle on the
stairway, his bloodshot eyes fixed upon the figures of Jules, of the
officers, and of Sergeant Huefer and the party of men he was now
parading, Henri never felt more helpless in all his life before. He
felt pinned to the spot, incapable of action; and, indeed, common
sense--what little of it he still possessed after the blow which had
rendered him unconscious--told him that action of any sort was useless.
Yet, could he see a friend, an old chum, a comrade as dear to him as
any brother, shot down in cold blood in front of these leering men?
Could he watch him put up as a target, to be butchered by these
unfeeling Germans? No. The thought that Jules's fate hung heavily in
the balance, that some desperate action on his part might bring him
assistance, spurred Henri to movement, and, rising to his knees, he
groped his way towards the entrance to the hall wherein the
firing-party were then assembling. As he crawled across the bodies
then littering the gallery along which the tiny railway ran, and
crossed the foot of the stairway, his hand lit upon a rifle, which he
seized instantly and raised to his shoulder. Then he dropped it again,
for the movement was too much for him, and, stumbling forward, fell on
his face, his head swimming once more, his brain