Westerling, who had buried his face in his hands in Marta’s presence at the thought of failure, must keep the pose of his position before the staff.  With chin drawn in and shoulders squared in a sort of petrified military habit, he received the feverish news that grew worse with each brief bulletin.  He, the chief of staff; he, Hedworth Westerling, the superman, must be a rock in the flood of alarm.  When he heard that his human ram was in recoil he declared that the repulse had been exaggerated—­repulses always were.  With word that a heavy counter-attack was turning the retreat into an ungovernable rout, he broke into a storm.  He was not beaten; he could not be beaten.

“Let our guns cut a few swaths in the mob!” he cried.  “That will stop them from running and bring them back to a sense of duty to their country.”

The irritating titter of the bell in the closet off the library only increased his defiance of facts beyond control.  He went to the long distance with a reply to the premier’s inquiry ready to his lips.

“We got into the enemy’s works but had to fall back temporarily,” he said.

“Temporarily!  What do you mean?” demanded the premier.

“I mean that we have only begun to attack!” declared Westerling.  He liked that sentence.  It sounded like the shibboleth of a great leader in a crisis.  “I shall assault again to-morrow night.”

“Then your losses were not heavy?”

“No, not relatively.  To-morrow night we press home the advantage we gained to-night.”

“But you have been so confident each time.  You still think that—­”

“That I mean to win!  There is no stopping half-way.”

“Well, I’ll still try to hold the situation here,” replied the premier.  “But keep me informed.”

Drugged by his desperate stubbornness, Westerling was believing in his star again when he returned to the library.  All the greater his success for being won against scepticism and fears!  He summoned his chiefs of divisions, who came with the news that the Browns had taken the very redoubt from which the head of the Gray charge had started; but there they had stopped.

“Of course!  Of course they stopped!” exclaimed Westerling.  “They are not mad.  A few are not going to throw themselves against superior numbers—­our superior numbers beaten by our own panic!  Lanstron is not a fool.  You’ll find the Browns back in their old position, working like beavers to make new defences in the morning.  Meanwhile, we’ll get that mob of ours into shape and find out what made them lose their nerve.  To-morrow night we shall have as many more behind them.  We are going to attack again!”

The staff exchanged glances of amazement, and Turcas, his dry voice crackling like parchment, exclaimed: 

“Attack again?  At the same point?”

“Yes—­the one place to attack!” said Westerling.  “The rest of our line has abundant reserves; a needless number for anything but the offensive.  We’ll leave enough to hold and draw off the rest to Engadir at once.”