od
for the German.

"Rosine," he said, "cut a sandwich for that German dog, and then run
into my room and fetch the black sealing wax from my desk."

When she had gone off to obey him, Gaston Baudel opened a bottle of red
wine and poured a little away. Then, fetching a small glass-stoppered
bottle from his room, he emptied the contents--pure morphia--into the
wine and recorked the bottle.

"So much," he said to himself, "for the doctor and his drugs. He may
have told me how much to dilute it to deaden the pain of my ears, but he
gave me no instructions about dosing Germans. They have strong stomachs;
let them have strong drink."

But as he sealed the cork and mouth of the bottle, to allay any
suspicions the German might have, a thought came to him. Was he not
committing murder? Was he not taking away God's gift of life from a
fellow creature? Unconsciously he touched the bandage that covered his
mutilated ears. Surely, though, it could not be wrong to kill one of
these hated oppressors? Should not an enemy of France be destroyed at
any cost?

As he hesitated, the impatient voice of von Scheldmann sounded from the
schoolroom. "You swine!" he shouted, "are you bringing me food, or must
I come and fetch it?"

The schoolmaster seized a scrap of paper, and scribbled a few words on
it. Then, slipping it between the cheese and bread of the sandwich, he
made a little packet of the food, and hastened from the room. God, or
Fate, must decide.

He handed the food and wine to the German, and watched him as he tramped
down the garden path, to join in the unending stream of grey-coated
soldiers who straggled towards the north.

III

Oberleutnant von Scheldmann sat on a bank by the roadside, to lunch in
haste. Behind him, parallel to him, in front of him, went the German
army; and the thunder of the guns, down by the Marne, told of the
rearguard fight. As they tramped past, the soldiers gazed enviously at
the bread and cheese and wine, for the country was clear of food, and,
even had it not been, the rapid advance and rapid retreat left but
little time for plundering.

Von Scheldmann knocked the top off the wine bottle with a blow from a
stone, and, with care to avoid the sharp edges of the glass, he drank
long and deep. As he bit greedily into the sandwich, his teeth met on
something thin and tenuous, and he pulled the two bits of bread apart.
Inside was a scrap of paper. With a curse, he was about to throw the
paper