the trained servant of his will. His efforts at sleep resulted in a
numbing brain torture, which so desensitized it to outward impressions
that his faithful personal aide entering the room at dawn had to touch
him on the shoulder to arouse attention.

"There's nothing like being able to order yourself to sleep, whatever
the crisis," he said. But suddenly he winced as if a blast of bullets
had crashed through a window-pane and buried themselves in the wall
beside his bed. "What is that?" he gasped "What?" With appalling
distinctness he heard a cannonade that seemed as wide-spread as the
horizon.

"I was to tell you that the enemy has been attacking along the whole
front," the aide explained.

"Attacking! The Browns attacking!" Westerling exclaimed as he gathered
his wits. "Well, so much the worse for them. I rather expected they
would," he added.

Then through the door which the aide had left open the division chiefs,
led by Turcas, filed in. To Westerling they seemed like a procession of
ghosts. The features of one were the features of all, graven with the
weariness of the machine's treadmill. Their harness held them up. A
moving platform under their feet kept their legs moving. They grouped
around the great man's desk silently, Turcas, his lips a half-opened
seam, his voice that of crinkling parchment, acting as spokesman.

"The enemy seized his advantage," he said, "when he found that our
reserves were on the march, out of touch with the wire to headquarters."

Westerling forced a smile which he wanted to be a knowing smile.

"Exactly! Of course their guns are making a lot of noise," he said. "It
seems strange to you, no doubt, that they and not we should be
attacking. Excellent! Let them have a turn at paying the costs of the
offensive. Let them thrash their battalions to pieces. We want them
exhausted when we go in to-night."

"However, we had not prepared our positions for the defensive,"
continued that very literal parchment voice. "They began an assault on
our left flank first and we've just had word that they have turned it."

"Probably a false report. Probably they have taken an outpost. Order a
counter-attack!" exclaimed Westerling.

"Nor is that the worst of it," said the vice-chief. "They are pressing
at other well-chosen points. They threaten to pierce our centre."

"Our centre!" gibed Westerling. "You do need rest. Our centre, where we
have the column of last night's attack still concentrated!