tself from the company, attracted
by the firing. Those were no longer scattered shots; they had combined
into a continual crackling.

The senator, who had left father and son together that they might talk
more freely, now reappeared.

"We are dismissed from here, my friend," he announced. "We have no luck
in our visits."

Soldiers were no longer passing to and fro. All had hastened to their
posts, like the crew of a ship which clears for action. While Julio was
taking up the rifle which he had left against the wall, a bit of dust
whirled above his father's head and a little hole appeared in the
ground.

"Quick, get out of here!" he said pushing Don Marcelo.

Then, in the shelter of a covered trench, came the nervous, very brief
farewell. "Good-bye, father," a kiss, and he was gone. He had to return
as quickly as possible to the side of his men.

The firing had become general all along the line. The soldiers were
shooting serenely, as though fulfilling an ordinary function. It was a
combat that took place every day without anybody's knowing exactly who
started it--in consequence of the two armies being installed face to
face, and such a short distance apart. . . . The Chief of the battalion
was also obliged to desert his guests, fearing a counter-attack.

Again the officer charged with their safe conduct put himself at the
head of the file, and they began to retrace their steps through
the slippery maze. Desnoyers was tramping sullenly on, angry at the
intervention of the enemy which had cut short his happiness.

Before his inward gaze fluttered the vision of Julio with his black,
curly beard which to him was the greatest novelty of the trip. He heard
again his grave voice, that of a man who has taken up life from a new
viewpoint.

"I am content, father . . . I am content."

The firing, growing constantly more distant, gave the father great
uneasiness. Then he felt an instinctive faith, absurd, very firm. He
saw his son beautiful and immortal as a god. He had a conviction that he
would come out safe and sound from all dangers. That others should die
was but natural, but Julio! . . .

As they got further and further away from the soldier boy, Hope appeared
to be singing in his ears; and as an echo of his pleasing musings, the
father kept repeating mentally:

"No one will kill him. My heart which never deceives me, tells me so.
. . . No one will kill him!"

CHAPTER IV

"NO ONE WILL KILL HIM"

Fou