Very sweet and very harrowing to him was the intimacy of their conspiracy over that underground wire.  With the prolongation of the strain, he feared for her.  He understood how she suffered.  Sometimes he felt that the Marta of their holiday comradeship was dead and it was the impersonal spirit of a great purpose that brought him information and inspiration.  Her voice was taut, without inflection, as if in pain, occasionally breaking into a dry sob, only to become even more taut after a silence.

“I don’t—­I can’t urge you to any further sacrifice,” Lanstron replied.  “You have endured enough.”

“But it will help?  It will be of vital service?”

“Yes, tremendously vital.”

“I will try to learn more when I see him,” she continued.  “But it cannot be done by questioning.  A single question might be fatal.  The thing must come in a burst of confidence.  That’s the horrible part of it, the—­” There was a dry sob over the wire as the voice broke and then went on steadily:  “But I’m game!  I’m game!”

In the closet off the Galland library, where the long-distance telephone was installed, Westerling was talking with the premier in the Gray capital.

“Your total casualties are eight hundred thousand!  That is terrific, Westerling!” the premier was saying.

“Only two hundred thousand of those are dead!” replied Westerling.  “Many with only slight wounds are already returning to the front.  Terrific, do you say?  Two hundred thousand in five millions is one man out of every twenty-five.  That wouldn’t have worried Frederick the Great or Napoleon much.  Eight hundred thousand is one out of six.  The trouble is that such vast armies have never been engaged before.  You must consider the percentages, not the totals.”

“Yet, eight hundred thousand!  If the public knew!” exclaimed the premier.

“The public does not know!” said Westerling.

“They guess.  They realize that we stopped the soldiers’ letters because they told bad news.  The situation is serious.”

“Why not give the public something else to think about?” Westerling demanded.

“I’ve tried.  It doesn’t work.  The murmurs increase.  I repeat, my fears of a rising of the women are well grounded.  There is mutiny in the air.  I feel it through the columns of the press, though they are censored.  I—­”

“Then, soon I’ll give the public something to think about, myself!” Westerling broke in.  “The dead will be forgotten.  The wounded will be proud of their wounds and their fathers and mothers triumphant when our army descends the other side of the range and starts on its march to the Browns’ capital.”

“But you have not yet taken a single fortress!” persisted the premier.  “And the Browns report that they have lost only three hundred thousand men.”

“Lanstron is lying!” retorted Westerling hotly.  “But no matter.  We have taken positions with every attack and kept crowding in closer.  I ask nothing better than that the Browns remain on the defensive, leaving initiative to us.  We have developed their weak points.  The resolute offensive always wins.  I know where I am going to attack; they do not.  I shall not give them time to reinforce the defence at our chosen point.  I have still plenty of live soldiers left.  I shall go in with men enough this time to win and to hold.”