“I know what is best—­I alone!” Westerling continued, driving home his point.  “Tell our commanders to hold.  Neither general nor man is to budge.  They are to stick to the death.  Any one who does not I shall hold up to public shame as a poltroon.  Who knows but Lanstron’s attack may be a council of desperation?  The Browns may be worse off than we are.  Hold, hold!  If are are tired, they are tired.  Frequently it takes only an ounce more of resolution to turn the tide of battle.  Hold, hold!  To-morrow will tell a different story!  We are going to win yet!  Yes, we are going to win!”

“It is for you to decide, Your Excellency,” said Turcas, slowly and precisely.  “You take the responsibility.”

“I take the responsibility.  I am in command!” replied Westerling in unflinching pose.

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

And they filed out of the room, leaving him to his isolation.

A little later, when Francois came in unannounced, bringing coffee, he found his master with face buried in hands.  Westerling was on the point of striking the valet in anger at the discovery, but instead attempted a yawn to deceive him.

“I fell asleep; there’s so little to worry about, Francois,” he explained.

“Yes, Your Excellency.  There is no need of worrying as long as you are in command,” said Francois; and Westerling gulped at the coffee and chewed at a piece of roll, which was so dry in his mouth and so hard to swallow that he gave up the attempt.

After Marta had learned, over the telephone, from Lanstron of the certain repulse of the Gray assault, fatigue—­sheer physical fatigue such as made soldiers drop dead in slumber on the earth, their packs still on their backs—­overcame her.  Her work was done.  The demands of nature overwhelmed her faculties.  She slept with a nervous twitching of her muscles, a restless tossing of her lithe body, until hammers began beating on her temples, beating, beating with the sound of shell bursts, as if to warn her that punishment for her share in the killing was to be the eternal concussion of battle in her ears.  At length she realized that the cannonading was real.

Hastening out-of-doors, as her glance swept toward the range she saw bursts of shrapnel smoke from the guns of the Browns nearer than since the fighting had begun on the main line, and these were directed at bodies of infantry that were in confused retreat down the slopes, while all traffic on the pass road was moving toward the rear.  Impelled by a new apprehension she hurried to the tunnel.  Lanstron answered her promptly in a voice that had a ring of relief and joy in place of the tension that had characterized it since the outbreak of the war.

“Thanks to you, Marta!” he cried.  “Everything goes back to you—­thanks to you came this chance to attack, and we are succeeding at every point!  You are the general, you the maker of victories!”

“Yes, the general of still more killing!” she cried in indignation.  “Why have you gone on with the slaughter?  I did not help you for this.  Why?”