the roar of the battle followed as peter staggered back alone to judenbach. he must have traversed a mile before there was a rational activity of his faculties. the first mental picture was that of the officers running along the works as the order for “advance as skirmishers” was given. they were inspiring the men in the name of the little father.

“if only they hadn't said that,” peter muttered pathetically.

then he recalled that kohlvihr had been lifted practically unhurt from the clay floor; that his order was carried out. the infantry had obeyed. with all he knew, and all he had seen that day, the mystery of common men deepened. out of it all strangely stood forth in his mind now the man who could not rise, but who crawled after him at a word.... these men obeyed—that was the whole story. if they were given true fathers!... why, that was the answer!

peter had come into this with all the fire of revelation. he had earned it. blood and courage, and the stress of death, had given it to him. yet it was worth it all. he would tell berthe wyndham....

he stopped short at the edge of the town. never was there in his life a moment of profounder humility. berthe wyndham had told him all this before they left warsaw—on the day that the message came from lonegan. all he had learned to-day through such rigor and jeopardy she had told him; and she had understood it then with the same passion that he had it now.

peter had only listened that day; he had lived it to-day. his heart suddenly flooded with warmth for fallows. fallows had been through all this—all the burning and zealotry of it, and had come forth into the coldness and austerity of service. it was very wonderful. peter mowbray's eyes smarted. they, and the service, had certainly crumpled the old fronts of calm and the sterile pools of intellect. he loved the peasants now, and he knew why.... he saw what a stick he had been, but this didn't trouble him greatly. the new seeing was enough; he was changed. his emotions presently concerned the fresh realizations so dearly bought—in the past three days... three days.

not until now did he think of samarc.... the reality had stood like a black figure at the door of his brain throughout all the walk, but it did not enter until now. no, samarc would not come back to judenbach. it was finished as he had intended. he had ceased to kill. even at the last he had but used his hands, and in as righteous wrath as ever tortured human fingers to terrible strength.... he, mowbray, had not remained to assure himself that the last command of his friend was obeyed. this hurt him not a little.... he was in the main street... exertion, sorrow, exaltation; now he was whipped again. he felt he had not done well at the last. a teamster yelled to him to get out of the way. peter stepped back wearily to let a string of ambulances by.

across was that grim door of the house of amputations. he was not quite ready to enter. he would get himself in hand better. he had not been gone long—it was only mid-forenoon. he would go to his quarters and clean up a little—perhaps rest a moment. his thoughts turned often to samarc, always with a pang. he wished the big belt were here. this last reminded him of his saddle bags—razors and all gone with the pony. boylan would have the laugh at him now.

he could not sit still in his quarters. voices came to him from the street, from the court—even from that grim place a little down the way. he arose and went across to the familiar hospital ward.... another was in samarc's place. a hand beckoned. it was from the cot of the soldier for whom he had struggled with the young doctor. he went to it. there was a message:

“they were talking of you as an enemy—”

that was all. peter did not care for particulars. his volition was quickened. he had been sadly in need of that. now he went direct to the hallway, where he had left her in the morning, and on upstairs. the rooms were crowded with wounded and medical officers, but no familiar face—neither berthe wyndham nor moritz abel.

many eyes held him. he did not see the young doctor, but the surgeon who had come to the other ward was there—that bland, quiet face, regarding him curiously now. peter asked nothing, and was free apparently to move anywhere about the building. none of his own was there. his loneliness was untellable. he could not have spoken to a stranger without a break of tone....

he wished for boylan again.

peter was in the street, moved along the walls as one very tired. he was searching, but the thoughts grew so terrible that he could not keep his eyes to outer activity. his steps led him to the court of executions. standing by the street gate, he dreaded to enter. he would not tolerate this, yet it was more than life or death. he had a mental picture of finding her there, her body shrinking into one of the stone corners—as a maimed bird that has fallen lies still under its wings.

his breath burst from him. he had been holding it as if under water. his eyes traveled electrically now.

there were dead in the court, but she was not there, nor abel nor fallows. he looked through the row of gratings and under the arches. there was a low stone lintel with a dim deserted hall beyond....

just now a step behind him, heavy boots ringing on the stone flags. peter turned. a russian soldier halted, raised his rifle, commanded him to advance.

peter waved his hand in a gesture of obedience, but turned to glance in the gloom under the lintel again. it was just in the turning that he had caught the gleam of her colors—not when he stared straight in. peter assured himself of this before giving himself up.