Whenever Don Marcelo passed a bad night, suffering from nightmare, a certain terrible thing—­always the same—­would torment his imagination.  Rarely did he dream of mortal peril to his family or self.  The frightful vision was always that certain notes bearing his signature were presented for collection which he, Marcelo Desnoyers, the man always faithful to his bond, with a past of immaculate probity, was not able to pay.  Such a possibility made him tremble, and long after waking his heart would be oppressed with terror.  To his imagination this was the greatest disgrace that a man could suffer.

Now that war was overturning his existence with its agitations, the same agonies were reappearing.  Completely awake, with full powers of reasoning, he was suffering exactly the same distress as when in his horrible dreams he saw his dishonored signature on a protested document.

All his past was looming up before his eyes with such extraordinary clearness that it seemed as though until then his mind must have been in hopeless confusion.  The threatened land of France was his native country.  Fifteen centuries of history had been working for him, in order that his opening eyes might survey progress and comforts that his ancestors did not even know.  Many generations of Desnoyers had prepared for his advent into life by struggling with the land and defending it that he might be born into a free family and fireside. . . .  And when his turn had come for continuing this effort, when his time had arrived in the rosary of generations—­he had fled like a debtor evading payment! . . .  On coming into his fatherland he had contracted obligations with the human group to whom he owed his existence.  This obligation should be paid with his arms, with any sacrifice that would repel danger . . . and he had eluded the acknowledgment of his signature, fleeing his country and betraying his trust to his forefathers!  Ah, miserable coward!  The material success of his life, the riches acquired in a remote country, were comparatively of no importance.  There are failures that millions cannot blot out.  The uneasiness of his conscience was proving it now.  Proof, too, was in the envy and respect inspired by this poor mechanic marching to meet his death with others equally humble, all kindled with the satisfaction of duty fulfilled, of sacrifice accepted.

The memory of Madariaga came to his memory.

“Where we make our riches, and found a family—­there is our country.”

No, the statement of the centaur was not correct.  In normal times, perhaps.  Far from one’s native land when it is not exposed to danger, one may forget it for a few years.  But he was living now in France, and France was being obliged to defend herself against enemies wishing to overpower her.  The sight of all her people rising en masse was becoming an increasingly shameful torture for Desnoyers, making him think all the time of what he should have done in his youth, of what he had dodged.