resistibly, in concert with his own mood, as she
continued to regard Hugo. Hugo's mask was entirely for Westerling. He
did not seem to see Marta now, and through his mask radiated the
considerate understanding of one who can put himself in another's
place--which was Hugo's besetting fault or virtue, as you choose. In
short, the chief of staff had a feeling that this private knew exactly
what he, the chief of staff, was thinking.

"Yes, I was certain, sir," said Hugo, "that you were too busy either to
listen to speeches or to read books. You have months of hard work before
you, sir."

His respectful "sirs" had the deference of youth to an elder; otherwise,
he was an equal in conversation with an equal. Westerling still kept his
temper, but the way that his under jaw closed indicated that he had made
up his mind.

"One charge is enough," he said in a businesslike fashion. "On the
firing-line you threw down your rifle. You refused to fight any more.
You said: 'Damn patriotism! I'm through!' Is that so?"

A slight flush shot into Hugo's cheeks; he twisted his shoulder on his
crutch as if he had a twinge of pain, but his face did not change its
expression.

"No, sir. I did not say: 'Damn patriotism!' I'm afraid Captain Fracasse
was out of temper when he reported that. I didn't say, 'Damn
patriotism!' because I did not think that then and do not now. Would you
care to have my recollection of what I said?"

"Yes!" breathed Marta with so intent an emphasis that Westerling turned
sharply, only to find her smiling at him. Her smile said that she
thought that Hugo's story would be interesting.

"Yes; go ahead!" said Westerling.

"I think that I can recall my words very accurately, sir," Hugo
proceeded. "They were important to me. I was the individual most
affected in the matter. I said: 'I am through. I will not murder my
fellowmen who have done me no wrong. I cannot, I will not kill!'"

"That is all?" queried Westerling, again looking at Marta, this time
covertly, while he played with a teaspoon.

Brooding uncertainty had flooded the sparkle out of her eyes. She was
statue-like in her stillness, her breaths impalpable in their softness.
But the points of her knuckles were ghostly, sharp spots on her tightly
clenched hands. All that Westerling could tell was that she was
thinking, and thinking hard. There was a space of silence broken only by
the movement of the teaspoon. Hugo was the first to speak.

"I believe in p