Meanwhile Julio was marching right on, without turning his head, without being conscious of the burning gaze fixed upon him, colorless, but humming a tune to hide his emotion.  He always believed that Marguerite had passed near him without recognizing him, since his father did not betray her.

One of Don Marcelo’s pet occupations was to make his son tell about the encounter in which he had been hurt.  No visitor ever came to see the sub-lieutenant but the father always made the same petition.

“Tell us how you were wounded. . . .  Explain how you killed that German captain.”

Julio tried to excuse himself with visible annoyance.  He was already surfeited with his own history.  To please his father, he had related the facts to the senator, to Argensola and to Tchernoff in his studio, and to other family friends. . . .  He simply could not do it again.

So the father began the narration on his own account, giving the relief and details of the deed as though seen with his own eyes. . . .

He had to take possession of the ruins of a sugar refinery in front of the trench.  The Germans had been expelled by the French cannon.  A reconnoitring survey under the charge of a trusty man was then necessary.  And the heads, as usual, had selected Sergeant Desnoyers.

At daybreak, the platoon had advanced stealthily without encountering any difficulty.  The soldiers scattered among the ruins.  Julio then went on alone, examining the positions of the enemy; on turning around a corner of the wall, he had the most unexpected of encounters.  A German captain was standing in front of him.  They had almost bumped into each other.  They looked into each other’s eyes with more suspense than hate, yet at the same time, they were trying instinctively to kill each other, each one trying to get the advantage by his swiftness.  The captain had dropped the map that he was carrying.  His right hand sought his revolver, trying to draw it from its case without once taking his eyes off his enemy.  Then he had to give this up as useless—­it was too late.  With his eyes distended by the proximity of death, he kept his gaze fixed upon the Frenchman who had raised his gun to his face.  A shot, from a barrel almost touching him . . . and the German fell dead.

Not till then did the victor notice the captain’s orderly who was but a few steps behind.  He shot Desnoyers, wounding him in the shoulder.  The French hurried to the spot, killing the corporal.  Then there was a sharp cross-fire with the enemy’s company which had halted a little ways off while their commander was exploring the ground.  Julio, in spite of his wound, continued at the head of his section, defending the factory against superior forces until supports arrived, and the land remained definitely in the power of the French.

“Wasn’t that about the way of it?” Don Marcelo would always wind up.

The son assented, desirous that his annoyance with the persistent story should come to an end as soon as possible.  Yes, that was the way of it.  But what the father didn’t know, what Julio would never tell, was the discovery that he had made after killing the captain.