a gray dawn, an east wind with a driving mist, a miserable day afield in every promise, and big belt had missed none of these portents since the full darkness. with the first relief of the morning-guard at headquarters, he was there. dabnitz appeared and smiled grimly. the wire was already busy; kohlvihr came in unsteadily, the old fume about him that made boylan lick his lips. his own nerves had been badly wrenched. he could have relished a stimulant, but he hadn't thought of it alone.

“you're looking for word from the commander?” dabnitz asked.

“yes.”

“so are we. it's up to him to-day. we're a mere wisp of what we were—”

boylan simulated interest. there was but one idea in his world, however.

“by the way,” dabnitz added. “the commander asked for full particulars this morning at three. they were sent to him—mr. mowbray's case—”

boylan jerked up his chin. of late, his woolen collar had apparently shrunk.

“you haven't heard yet?”

“not yet. we're waiting—”

“nothing will be done until you hear?”

“not in mowbray's case. the others—the others have had tea.... they are very quiet this morning—no singing.”

boylan hated him for that, a momentary but scarring hatred.... the field telephone began. presently it occupied the steady swift attention of a stenographer whose pages were put on the machine and handed in strips to the staff members, like a last-minute news story to compositors. ...one of the hardest things boylan ever did was to speak to dabnitz as follows: “i'd better be there if you take the others and leave—leave peter mowbray. he's impulsive. you wouldn't want a scene—you know—”

“wait a minute—i think your matter is on the wire,” dabnitz said, drawing back to the telegraph.

“yes,” he nodded, and a moment later handed big belt this message:

“my compliments to mr. boylan and assurances of excellent regard. i have found the favor he asks, however, altogether out of my power to grant.”

boylan's jaw dropped; his mouth filled with saliva. dabnitz said something, “...desperately sorry... couldn't possibly have ended another way.”

“come, come—this won't do,” big belt muttered queerly. he was not answering dabnitz, but commanding himself.... he swallowed again and turned:

“you will have charge of the affair?”

“yes, doubtless. it will be very short—”

“i will wait for you below. of course, i'll want to be there, you know—”

“i didn't know,” dabnitz sighed.

boylan was standing below. he heard distant firing through the rain in the direction of the field.... lornievitch had doubtless begun a flank movement. kohlvihr would lick his wounds in judenbach for another day.

dabnitz appeared from the stairway, a paper in his hand. he dispatched a sentry to the barracks for a platoon, and stood waiting impatiently for its coming. big belt, in the door of his quarters a few paces distant, swallowed again.... it might delay matters.... the black fact was that it would not do more....

“oh, i say, lieutenant, come here a moment, please. i want to show you something—”

boylan led the russian in, and turned. the place was empty. dabnitz regarded him wearily—then with sudden amazement.

it was a kind of bear reaching. he was pulled down, his face smothered in a woolen shirt that covered a breast like cushioned stone. the building must have fallen. the hands were neither rough nor swift, but they pawed him with a kind of power that turned him to vapor. there was one finger upon his backbone at the neck that shut off the life currents.... dabnitz opened his eyes presently—a choking wad of paper in his mouth. the mammoth looked down upon him and said:

“excuse me, lieutenant, but i had to have a chance to think.”

at this instant boylan saw the paper that the russian had carried. it had fluttered to the floor, kohlvihr's signature in plain view. the weights that beset the american had now to do with the uselessness of it all. he had rendered the momentary order and its bearer ineffectual; he might possibly divert the platoon. but the great one-eyed system was all about, knowing its single task of destruction. it would turn back to that piece by piece—until the task was done. yet while he lived, boylan could not let it go on, in this specific instance. he was fighting the russian army now; that die was cast; the one thing to do was to keep peter mowbray alive as long as possible. he went about further details without hope, however.

dabnitz was carefully bound and lifted to the corner in the midst of saddles and kit. an extra strip was fastened around his chin to prevent the ejection of the gag. big belt spoke steadily and softly as he worked:

“you're a good soldier. you play your game to the seeds. i have no objection to you. when it's all over i'll think of you—as a corking field man. you've been good to us, too—everything you could do to make us comfortable and to help us see the wheels go round.... only this one little thing. perhaps you think i take it too seriously—this mowbray thing. perhaps i do. that's my funeral.... wow, and i was merely speaking figuratively!... in any event i'm not a nihilist. i've only got mowbray on the brain.... i've hurt you as little as possible. i won't leave you here long, my boy. i wasn't rough with you. you must have seen that—”

dabnitz's eyes rolled.

“well, you see i couldn't have a whole lot of noise. there's the true official timbre in your voice, lieutenant.... now you're snug, and the platoon is served in the street.... look what's here! i'm a careless hand—six-shooter and belt. you'll rest more comfortably with 'em off. and a bit of a sword? i'll take that, too. ...i won't be long, dabnitz.”

he went forth carrying the paper. “lieutenant was called to another task,” he said haltingly to the enlisted officer in charge. “hold your men here, until i come—”

the firing was intense valleyward. boylan felt the need of thinking further and dashed into the headquarters' stairway. there were excited voices above, and he made haste to see. kohlvihr was wild-eyed in the center of the upper room—the telegraph ticking nervously, half of his staff bending with extraordinary intensity over the birth of a certain message.... what they wanted came over the 'phone.

boylan saw four russian officers rush to the 'phone from the telegraph table.... something had happened. he backed out.

“it's all off,” he told the soldier. “go back to barracks. the enemy has broken through—”

he wasn't sure of the last, but tore the paper and crumpled the pieces. the platoon reversed and vanished. at the far end of the street a cavalry squad was galloping forward, behind a single dispatch rider. already the news was known in headquarters and the staff officers burst forth with orders for retreat—retreat to the eastward. it was no secret now. the enemy was crossing the valley that kohlvihr had found impassable.

big belt felt the life brimming up in his heart. then he thought of dabnitz, and went to him, shutting the door behind.

“do you get what's on, lieutenant? wink once—if you do.”

dabnitz shook his head.

“it's the enemy breaking through. judenbach is to be abandoned pronto. listen—”

the cavalry was in the street, carrying abroad the order for retreat.... they heard it plainly now, even the details. hospitals not to be emptied, guns and ammunition not readily to be transported, must be destroyed. the final hell was started in the town.

“dabnitz, i don't want you among the captured on my account. just forget that order! the platoon has gone back. the staff is blocked and jammed with greater things. will you forget it? wink twice—”

there was no hesitation.

“good. the sentries must be called off—that stair-door left open. i'll join them—and bother you no more. we'll not leave the room while the town changes hands. they'll never even ask you if that little job is done. will you go with me now and do this? wink twice—”

it was done emphatically; a beseeching for haste.

“dabnitz, i trust you. i'll entertain you in america some time—all washington and new york.... you'll do exactly what i ask—no more, no less? good god, man, it wouldn't do any good to kill 'em now. they're out of hand forever. perhaps the austrians will do it, anyway. wink twice—”

“good.” the gag was jerked free, and the various bindings.

“now, come with me. i'll detain you but a second or two—”

dabnitz walked at his side to the stair entrance of the skylight prison. he spoke to the sentry below. the officer of the guard was called; the sentry summoned from above, the door left open.

“wait,” boylan said finally to dabnitz. “here's your gun, lieutenant. i'm obliged to you. you'll know better some day what i mean by that—”

“keep them under cover,” dabnitz said hoarsely. “i'll kill you or any of the others that i see in the street.”

“you'd be quite right.”

dabnitz turned away. big belt deliberated. he did not quite trust the russian. he had covered him with his little pocket gun, as he handed back the arms. still boylan couldn't have caused him to fall prisoner. his hope now was that the lieutenant would find such a rush and turmoil that he would be compelled to forget the incident. ...he heard their voices at the upper door of the stairway.

“is that you, boylan?”

“yep.”

“good-morning. what's up?” it was peter.

“i haven't quite settled in my mind. you're not to come down. we haven't decorated the christmas tree. i'm sentry here—”

the side street was deserted. the main highway was a throng, strange in its new direction of northward, for the bulk of energy had heretofore moved toward the valley. the sappers were at their work of destruction. the town rocked with explosions, but the main consideration to big belt was that moments passed without bringing further fighting to him, personally.

“maybe he means to stick after all,” he muttered. “he must see that i was square with him—”

then big belt smiled grimly, as if he had heard his own words.

he watched with a kind of ferocity until the passing of the staff made him duck back into the doorway.... kohlvihr sitting like a potato-bag, the brave but melancholy doltmir—finally dabnitz. the latter passed the little side-street without a turn of the head. after many moments boylan ventured to the corner. rifle shots from the southern border, and the smell of fire, were matters of critical interest. the main highway was all but emptied of russians. one little party of artillerymen was struggling to save a big gun half-horsed. three ambulances hurried by filled with wounded officers—but the cries of the thousands of wounded enlisted men went up from the hospitals which the russians were abandoning. the lower half of the town was in a final ruin that blocked the streets.

but beyond as the wind cleared the smoke an instant (or the rain held it low to the earth), big belt saw a column of troops. its single peculiarity struck him with queer emotion. he returned to the stair-door. a long-repressed volume came forth from his lungs, as he trudged wearily upward.