ed the doctor. He
was not one to let rank awe him when duty pressed. "This hand ought to
be at the hospital at once."

"I'm coming along. I've a train to catch," replied His Excellency,
springing into the car. "No more wool-gathering, eh?" he said, giving
Lanstron a pat on the shoulder. To Lanstron this pat meant another
chance.

"Good-by!" he called to the young girl, who was still watching him with
big, sympathetic eyes. "I am coming back soon and land in the field,
there, and when I do. I'll claim a bunch of flowers."

"Do! What fun!" she cried, as the car started.

"The field-marshal was Partow, their chief of staff?" Westerling asked.

"Yes," said Mrs. Galland. "I remember when he was a young infantry
officer before the last war, before he had won the iron cross and become
so great. He was not of an army family--a doctor's son, but very clever
and skilful."

"Getting a little old for his work!" remarked Westerling. "But
apparently he is keen enough to take a personal interest in anything
new."

"Wasn't it thrilling and--and terrible!" Marta exclaimed.

"Yes, like war at our own door again," replied Mrs. Galland, who knew
war. She had seen war raging on the pass road. "Lanstron, the young man
said his name was," she resumed after a pause. "No doubt the Lanstrons
of Thorbourg. An old family and many of them in the army."

"The way he refused to give in--that was fine!" said Marta.

Westerling, who had been engrossed in his own thoughts, looked up.

"Courage is the cheapest thing an army has! You can get hundreds of
young officers who are glad to take a risk of that kind. The thing is,"
and his fingers pressed in on the palm of his hand in a pounding gesture
of the forearm, "to direct and command--head work--organization!"

"If war should come again--" Marta began. Mrs. Galland nudged her. A
Brown never mentioned war to an officer of the Grays; it was not at all
in the accepted proprieties. But Marta rushed on: "So many would be
engaged that it would be more horrible than ever."

"You cannot make omelets without breaking eggs," Westerling answered
with suave finality.

"I wonder if the baron ever said that!" Marta recollected that it was a
favorite expression of the fat, pompous little man. "It sounds like the
baron, at all events."

Westerling did not mind being likened to the baron. It was a
corroboration of her prophecy. The baron must have been a great leader
of men in his time.

"The aeroplan