through the
fault of others. It was the death-cry of the boy officer, Devlin. The
knives of the Ghazi had cut him down, but it was his own people's
abandoning him in terror that had killed him. And so, with a sob, he
flung the line at the retreating backs of his comrades: "You've killed
me, you cowards!"

Swanson, nursing his anger, repeated this savagely. He wished he could
bring it home to those men of the court-martial. He wished he could
make them know that his death lay at their door. He determined that
they should know. On one of his visiting-cards he pencilled:

"To the Officers of my Court-Martial: 'You've killed me, you cowards!'"

He placed the card in the pocket of his waistcoat. They would find it
just above the place where the bullet would burn the cloth.

The band was playing "Auf Wiedersehen," and the waltz carried with it
the sadness that had made people call the man who wrote it the waltz
king. Swanson listened gratefully. He was glad that before he went
out, his last mood had been of regret and gentleness. The sting of his
anger had departed, the music soothed and sobered him. It had been a
very good world. Until he had broken the spine of things it had
treated him well, far better, he admitted, than he deserved. There
were many in it who had been kind, to whom he was grateful. He wished
there was some way by which he could let them know that. As though in
answer to his wish, from across the parade-ground the wireless again
began to crash and crackle; but now Swanson was at a greater distance
from it, and the sighing rhythm of the waltz was not interrupted.

Swanson considered to whom he might send a farewell message, but as in
his mind he passed from one friend to another, he saw that to each such
a greeting could bring only distress. He decided it was the music that
had led him astray. This was no moment for false sentiment. He let
his hand close upon the pistol.

The audience now was dispersing. The nurse-maids had collected their
charges, the musicians were taking apart their music-racks, and from
the steps of the vine-covered veranda Admiral Preble was bidding the
friends of his wife adieu. At his side his aide, young, alert,
confident, with ill-concealed impatience awaited their departure.
Swanson found that he resented the aide. He resented the manner in
which he speeded the parting guests. Even if there were matters of
importance he was anxious to communicate to his