asurably increased since he had taken his part in this human
avalanche. And this respect had in it something of envy, the envy that
springs from an uneasy conscience.

Whenever Don Marcelo passed a bad night, suffering from nightmare, a
certain terrible thing--always the same--would torment his imagination.
Rarely did he dream of mortal peril to his family or self. The frightful
vision was always that certain notes bearing his signature were
presented for collection which he, Marcelo Desnoyers, the man always
faithful to his bond, with a past of immaculate probity, was not able
to pay. Such a possibility made him tremble, and long after waking his
heart would be oppressed with terror. To his imagination this was the
greatest disgrace that a man could suffer.

Now that war was overturning his existence with its agitations, the
same agonies were reappearing. Completely awake, with full powers of
reasoning, he was suffering exactly the same distress as when in his
horrible dreams he saw his dishonored signature on a protested document.

All his past was looming up before his eyes with such extraordinary
clearness that it seemed as though until then his mind must have been
in hopeless confusion. The threatened land of France was his native
country. Fifteen centuries of history had been working for him, in
order that his opening eyes might survey progress and comforts that his
ancestors did not even know. Many generations of Desnoyers had prepared
for his advent into life by struggling with the land and defending it
that he might be born into a free family and fireside. . . . And when
his turn had come for continuing this effort, when his time had arrived
in the rosary of generations--he had fled like a debtor evading payment!
. . . On coming into his fatherland he had contracted obligations with
the human group to whom he owed his existence. This obligation should be
paid with his arms, with any sacrifice that would repel danger . . . and
he had eluded the acknowledgment of his signature, fleeing his country
and betraying his trust to his forefathers! Ah, miserable coward! The
material success of his life, the riches acquired in a remote country,
were comparatively of no importance. There are failures that millions
cannot blot out. The uneasiness of his conscience was proving it now.
Proof, too, was in the envy and respect inspired by this poor mechanic
marching to meet his death with others equally humble, all kindled wit