For a few minutes his hopes revived as the possibility of victory
flashed into his mind, but he was so depressed by his forlorn situation
that such a hope evaporated as quickly as it had come. His own troops
were advancing, but this advance did not, perhaps, represent more than
a local gain. The line of battle was so extensive! . . . It was going to
be as in 1870; the French would achieve partial victories, modified at
the last moment by the strategy of the enemies until they were turned
into complete defeat.

After midnight the cannonading ceased, but silence was by no means
re-established. Automobiles were rolling around the lodge midst hoarse
shouts of command. It must be the hospital convoy that was evacuating
the castle. Then near daybreak the thudding of horses' hoofs and the
wheels of chugging machines thundered through the gates, making the
ground tremble. Half an hour afterwards sounded the tramp of multitudes
moving at a quick pace, dying away in the depths of the park.

At dawn the old gentleman leaped from his bed, and the first thing
he spied from the cottage window was the flag of the Red Cross still
floating from the top of the castle. There were no more cots under the
trees. On the bridge he met one of the doctors and several assistants.
The hospital force had gone with all its transportable patients. There
only remained in the castle, under the care of a company, those most
gravely wounded. The Valkyries of the health department had also
disappeared.

The red-bearded Shylock was among those left behind, and on seeing Don
Marcelo afar off, he smiled and immediately vanished. A few minutes
after he returned with full hands. Never before had he been so generous.
Foreseeing pressing necessity, the hungry man put his hands in his
pockets as usual, but was astonished to learn from the orderly's
emphatic gestures that he did not wish any money.

"Nein. . . . Nein!"

What generosity was this! . . . The German persisted in his negatives.
His enormous mouth expanded in an ingratiating grin as he laid his heavy
paws on Marcelo's shoulders. He appeared like a good dog, a meek dog,
fawning and licking the hands of the passer-by, coaxing to be taken
along with him. "Franzosen. . . . Franzosen." He did not know how to
say any more, but the Frenchman read in his words the desire to make him
understand that he had always been in great sympathy with the French.
Something very important was evidently transpiring--t