im with a glare, or momentary, weary
wonder, and continued packing up their papers for departure. He went on
into the telegraphers' room. Some of the operators were packing their
instruments.

"The news? What is the news?" Westerling asked hoarsely.

An operator who was still at the key, without even half rising let alone
saluting, glanced up from the cavernous sockets of eyes unawed by the
chief of staff's presence.

"All that comes in is bad," he said. "Where we get none because the
wires are down we know it's worse. We've been licked."

He went on sending a message, wholly oblivious of Westerling, who
stumbled back into the staff room and paused inarticulate before Turcas.

"The army is going--resisting by units, but going. It has made its own
orders!" Turcas said. The other division chiefs nodded in agreement.
"Your Excellency, we are doing our best," added the vice-chief, holding
the door for Westerling to return to his own office. "The nation is not
beaten. Given breathing time for reorganization, the army will settle
down to the defensive on our own range. There the enemy may try our
costly tactics against the precision and power of modern arms, if they
choose. No, the nation is not beaten."

The nation! Westerling was not thinking of the nation.

"You--" he began, looking around from face to face.

Not one showed any sign of softening or deference, and, his mind a
blank, he withdrew, driven back to his isolation by an inflexible
ostracism. The world had come to an end. Public opinion was
master--master of his own staff. He sank down before his desk, staring,
just staring; hearing the roar of battle which was drawing nearer;
staring at the staff orderlies, who came in to take down the wall maps,
and at his aide packing up the papers and leaving him in a room bare of
all the appurtenances of his position, with little idea in his coma of
despair of the hour or even that time was passing. Finally, some one
touched him on the shoulder. He looked up to see his aide at his elbow
saluting and Francois, his valet, standing by with an overcoat.

"We must go, Your Excellency," said the aide.

"Go?" asked Westerling dazedly.

"Yes, the staff has already gone to a new headquarters."

The announcement was the needle prick that once more aroused him to a
sense of his situation. He rose and struck his fist on the desk in a
pulsing outbreak of energy and stubbornness.

"But I stay! I stay!" he cried. "The enemy is