new the gnawings
of a hunger far worse than that which he had suffered when journeying
over the desert plains--a hunger among men, in a civilized country,
wearing a belt filled with gold, surrounded with towers and castle halls
which were his, but in the control of others who would not condescend
to listen to him. And for this piteous ending of his life he had amassed
millions and returned to Europe! . . . Ah, the irony of fate! . . .

He saw a doctor's assistant leaning up against a tree, about to devour
a slab of bread and sausage. His envious eyes scrutinized this fellow,
tall, thick-set, his jaws bristling with a great red beard. The
trembling old man staggered up to him, begging for the food by signs and
holding out a piece of money. The German's eyes glistened at the sight
of the gold, and a beatific smile stretched his mouth from ear to ear.

"Ya," he responded, and grabbing the money, he handed over the food.

Don Marcelo commenced to swallow it with avidity. Never had he so
appreciated the sheer ecstasy of eating as at that instant--in the midst
of his gardens converted into a cemetery, before his despoiled castle
where hundreds of human beings were groaning in agony. A grayish arm
passed before his eyes; it belonged to the German, who had returned
with two slices of bread and a bit of meat snatched from the kitchen. He
repeated his smirking "Ya?" . . . and after his victim had secured it
by means of another gold coin, he was able to take it to the two women
hidden in the cottage.

During the night--a night of painful watching, cut with visions of
horror, it seemed to him that the roar of the artillery was coming
nearer. It was a scarcely perceptible difference, perhaps the effect of
the silence of the night which always intensifies sound. The ambulances
continued coming from the front, discharging their cargoes of riddled
humanity and going back for more. Desnoyers surmised that his castle was
but one of the many hospitals established in a line of more than eighty
miles, and that on the other side, behind the French, were many similar
ones in which the same activity was going on--the consignments of
dying men succeeding each other with terrifying frequency. Many of the
combatants were not even having the satisfaction of being taken from
the battle field, but were lying groaning on the ground, burying their
bleeding members in the dust or mud, and weltering in the ooze from
their wounds. . . . And Don Marcel