of the wood, knew
no better, yet they have not done things as bad as these vile ones who
were educated, who knew. Therefore I killed them. I was old, but I was
strong, my colonel knows. Not for nothing have I lived a hard life. _On
a vu de la misere_. I have hunted moose and bear and kept my muscles of
steel and my eyes of a hawk. It is in my blood to be a fighting man. I
fought with pleasure, and I was troubled with no fear. I was old, but I
could have killed many devils more. And so I was shot down by my own
friend after seven days of hard life. And the young soldier doctor
discharged me as unfit to fight. And so I am come home very fast to hide
myself, for I am ashamed. I am finished. The fighting and the glory are
for me no more."

The colonel stepped back a bit and his face flamed. "Glory!" he
whispered. "Glory no more for the Hirondelle? What of the Croix de
Guerre?"

Rafael shook his head. "I haf heard my colonel who said they would have
given me--me, the Hirondelle--the war cross. That now is lost too."

"Lost!" The colonel's deep tone was full of the vibration which only a
French voice carries. With a quick movement he unfastened the catch that
held the green ribbon, red-striped, of his own cross of war. He turned
and pinned the thing which men die for on the shabby coat of the guide.
Then he kissed him on either cheek. "My comrade," he said, "your glory
will never be old."

There was deep silence in the camp kitchen. The crackling of wood that
fell apart, the splashing of the waves of the lake on the pebbles by the
shore were the only sounds on earth. For a long minute the men stood as
if rooted; the colonel, poised and dramatic, and, I stirred to the
depths of my soul by this great ceremony which had come out of the skies
to its humble setting in the forest--the men and the colonel and I, we
all watched Rafael.

And Rafael slowly, yet with the iron tenacity of his race, got back his
control. "My colonel," he began, and then failed. The Swallow did not
dare trust his broken wings. It could not be done--to speak his thanks.
He looked up with black eyes shining through tears which spoke
everything.

"Tomorrow," he stated brokenly, "if we haf a luck, my colonel and I go
kill a moose."

They had a luck.

ONLY ONE OF THEM

It was noon on a Saturday. Out of the many buildings of the great
electrical manufacturing plant at Schenectady poured employees by
hundreds. Thirty trolley-cars were run on