His eyes flashed with the memory of his charge, and visions of the day when Grandfather Fragini was a beau sabreur and Marta Galland’s father toasted quick death and speedy promotion seemed to cluster around him.

“Experience plus an old man’s honest effort for a mind open to all suggestion and improvements!” he exclaimed.  “An open mind that let you have your way in equipping more dirigibles and planes than Westerling guesses we have, eh?  And, perhaps, a few more guns!  And you, too, have been under fire,” he added.  “Give me your hand—­no, not that one, not the one you shake hands with—­the one wounded in action!”

Partow enclosed the stiffened fingers in his own with something of the caress which an old bear that is in very good humor might give to a promising cub.

“I have planned, planned, planned for this time,” he said.  “I have played politics with statesmen to hold my place in the belief that I was the man for the work which I have done.  The world shall soon know, as the elements of it go into the crucible test, whether it is well done or not.  I want to live to see the day when the last charge made against our trenches is beaten back.  Then they may throw this old body onto the rubbish heap as soon as they please—­it is a fat, unwieldy behemoth of an old body!”

“No, no, it isn’t!” Lanstron objected hotly.  He was seeing only what most people saw after talking with Partow for a few minutes, his fine, intelligent eyes and beautiful forehead.

“All that I wanted of the body was to feed my brain,” Partow continued, heedless of the interruption.  “I have watched my mind as a navigator watches a barometer.  I have been ready at the first sign that it was losing its grip to give up.  Yet I have felt that my body would go on feeding my brain and that to the last moment of consciousness, when suddenly the body collapses, I should have self-possession and energy of mind.  Under the coming strain the shock may come, as a cord snaps.  At that instant my successor will take up my work where I leave it off.”

“Goerwitz, you mean.”  Lanstron referred in unmistakable apprehension to the vice-chief of staff, whom all the army knew had no real ability or decision underneath his pleasing, confident exterior.

“No, not Goerwitz,” said Partow, with a shrug.  “Some one who will go on with the weaving, not by knotting threads but with the same threads in a smooth fabric.”  Lanstron felt an increased pressure of the hand, a communicated tingling to his nerves.  “I have chosen him.  The old fogy who has aimed to join experience to youth chooses youth.  You took your medicine without grumbling in the disagreeable but vitally important position of chief of intelligence.  Now you—­there, don’t tremble with stage fright!” For Lanstron’s hand was quivering in Partow’s grasp, while his face was that of a man stunned.

“But Goerwitz—­what will he say?” he gasped.