“Pardon me a moment,” the premier interrupted.  “I must answer a local call.”  So astute a man of affairs as he knew that Westerling’s voice, storming, breaking, tightening with effort at control, confirmed all reports of disaster.  “In fact, the crockery is broken—­for you and for me!” said the premier when he spoke again.  His life had been a gamble and the gamble had turned against him in playing for a great prize.  There was an admirable stoicism in the way he announced the news he had received from the local call:  “The chief of police calls me up to say that the uprising is too vast for him to hold.  There isn’t any mutiny, but his men simply have become a part of public opinion.  A mob of women and children is starting for the palace to ask me what I have done with their husbands, brothers, sons, and fathers.  They won’t have to break in to find me.  I’m very tired.  I’m ready.  I shall face them from the balcony.  Yes, Westerling, you and I have achieved a place in history, and they’re far more bitter toward you than me.  However, you don’t have to come back.”

“No, I don’t have to go back!  No, I was not to go back if I failed!” said Westerling dizzily.

Again defiance rose strong as the one tangible thought, born of his ruling passion.  It was inconceivable that so vast an ambition should fail.  Failure!  He defied it!  He burst into the main staff room, where the tired officers regarded him with a glare, or momentary, weary wonder, and continued packing up their papers for departure.  He went on into the telegraphers’ room.  Some of the operators were packing their instruments.

“The news?  What is the news?” Westerling asked hoarsely.

An operator who was still at the key, without even half rising let alone saluting, glanced up from the cavernous sockets of eyes unawed by the chief of staff’s presence.

“All that comes in is bad,” he said.  “Where we get none because the wires are down we know it’s worse.  We’ve been licked.”

He went on sending a message, wholly oblivious of Westerling, who stumbled back into the staff room and paused inarticulate before Turcas.

“The army is going—­resisting by units, but going.  It has made its own orders!” Turcas said.  The other division chiefs nodded in agreement.  “Your Excellency, we are doing our best,” added the vice-chief, holding the door for Westerling to return to his own office.  “The nation is not beaten.  Given breathing time for reorganization, the army will settle down to the defensive on our own range.  There the enemy may try our costly tactics against the precision and power of modern arms, if they choose.  No, the nation is not beaten.”

The nation!  Westerling was not thinking of the nation.

“You—­” he began, looking around from face to face.