he factory
against superior forces until supports arrived, and the land remained
definitely in the power of the French.

"Wasn't that about the way of it?" Don Marcelo would always wind up.

The son assented, desirous that his annoyance with the persistent story
should come to an end as soon as possible. Yes, that was the way of it.
But what the father didn't know, what Julio would never tell, was the
discovery that he had made after killing the captain.

The two men, during the interminable second in which they had confronted
each other, had showed in their eyes something more than the surprise
of an encounter, and the wish to overcome the other. Desnoyers knew that
man. The captain knew him, too. He guessed it from his expression. . . .
But self-preservation was more insistent than recollection and prevented
them both from co-ordinating their thoughts.

Desnoyers had fired with the certainty that he was killing someone that
he knew. Afterwards, while directing the defense of the position and
guarding against the approach of reinforcements, he had a suspicion that
the enemy whose corpse was lying a few feet away might possibly be a
member of the von Hartrott family. No, he looked much older than his
cousins, yet younger than his Uncle Karl who at his age, would be no
mere captain of infantry.

When, weakened by the loss of blood, they were about to carry him to
the trenches, the sergeant expressed a wish to see again the body of
his victim. His doubt continued before the face blanched by death. The
wide-open eyes still seemed to retain their startled expression. The man
had undoubtedly recognized him. His face was familiar. Who was he? . . .
Suddenly in his mind's eye, Julio saw the heaving ocean, a great
steamer, a tall, blonde woman looking at him with half-closed eyes of
invitation, a corpulent, moustached man making speeches in the style of
the Kaiser. "Rest in peace, Captain Erckmann!" . . . Thus culminated in
a corner of France the discussions started at table in mid-ocean.

He excused himself mentally as though he were in the presence of the
sweet Bertha. He had had to kill, in order not to be killed. Such is
war. He tried to console himself by thinking that Erckmann, perhaps,
had failed to identify him, without realizing that his slayer was the
shipmate of the summer. . . . And he kept carefully hidden in the depths
of his memory this encounter arranged by Fate. He did not even tell
Argensola who knew of