not near. He can't be!"

"Very near, general. You can see for yourself, said the aide.

"I will!" Westerling replied. "I will see how the conspiracy of the
staff has made ruin of my plans!"

Again something of his old manner returned; something of the stoic's
fatalism flashed in his eye. He shook his head to Francois, refusing to
slip his arms into the sleeves of the coat which Francois dropped on to
his shoulders.

"Yes, I will see for myself!" he repeated, as he led the way out to the
veranda. "I'll see what goblin scared my pusillanimous staff and robbed
me of victory!"

* * * * *

Every cry of triumph in war is paid for by a cry of pain. On one side,
anguish of heart; on the other, inexpressible ecstasy. The Gray staff
were oblivious of fatigue in the glum, overpowering necessity of
restoring the organization of the Gray army for a second stand. The
Brown staff were oblivious of fatigue in the exhilaration of victory.

Had a picture of the sight which the judge's son had witnessed at dawn
in the path of the attack and the counter-attack been thrown on the wall
of the big lobby room of the Brown headquarters, there might have been
less exultation on the part of the junior officers of the staff gathered
there. They were not seeing or thinking of the dead. They were seeing
only brown-headed pins pushing gray-headed pins out of the way on the
map, as the symbol of an attack become a pursuit and of better than
their dreams come true--the symbol of security for altar fires and race
and nation. They were of the living, in the mightiest thrill that a
soldier may know.

No doubt now! No more suspense! Labor and sacrifice rewarded! Fervent
thanks to the Almighty were mingled with whistled snatches of wedding
marches and popular songs. An aide taking a message to the wire
preferred leaping over a chair to going around it. A subaltern and a
colonel danced together. Victory, victory, victory out of the burr of
automatics, the pounding of artillery, the popping roar of rifles!
Victory out of the mire of trenches after brain-aching strain! Victory
for you and for me and for sweethearts and wives and children! Aren't we
all Browns, orderly and captain, boyish lieutenant and gray-haired
general? A taciturn martinet of a major hugged a telegrapher to whom he
had never spoken a single unofficial word. Hadn't the telegraphers,
those silent men who were the tongue of the army, received the good