The two men, during the interminable second in which they had confronted each other, had showed in their eyes something more than the surprise of an encounter, and the wish to overcome the other.  Desnoyers knew that man.  The captain knew him, too.  He guessed it from his expression. . . .  But self-preservation was more insistent than recollection and prevented them both from co-ordinating their thoughts.

Desnoyers had fired with the certainty that he was killing someone that he knew.  Afterwards, while directing the defense of the position and guarding against the approach of reinforcements, he had a suspicion that the enemy whose corpse was lying a few feet away might possibly be a member of the von Hartrott family.  No, he looked much older than his cousins, yet younger than his Uncle Karl who at his age, would be no mere captain of infantry.

When, weakened by the loss of blood, they were about to carry him to the trenches, the sergeant expressed a wish to see again the body of his victim.  His doubt continued before the face blanched by death.  The wide-open eyes still seemed to retain their startled expression.  The man had undoubtedly recognized him.  His face was familiar.  Who was he? . . .  Suddenly in his mind’s eye, Julio saw the heaving ocean, a great steamer, a tall, blonde woman looking at him with half-closed eyes of invitation, a corpulent, moustached man making speeches in the style of the Kaiser.  “Rest in peace, Captain Erckmann!” . . .  Thus culminated in a corner of France the discussions started at table in mid-ocean.

He excused himself mentally as though he were in the presence of the sweet Bertha.  He had had to kill, in order not to be killed.  Such is war.  He tried to console himself by thinking that Erckmann, perhaps, had failed to identify him, without realizing that his slayer was the shipmate of the summer. . . .  And he kept carefully hidden in the depths of his memory this encounter arranged by Fate.  He did not even tell Argensola who knew of the incidents of the trans-atlantic passage.

When he least expected it, Don Marcelo found himself at the end of that delightful and proud existence which his son’s presence had brought him.  The fortnight had flown by so swiftly!  The sub-lieutenant had returned to his post, and all the family, after this period of reality, had had to fall back on the fond illusions of hope, watching again for the arrival of his letters, making conjectures about the silence of the absent one, sending him packet after packet of everything that the market was offering for the soldiery—­for the most part, useless and absurd things.

The mother became very despondent.  Julio’s visit home but made her feel his absence with greater intensity.  Seeing him, hearing those tales of death that her husband was so fond of repeating, made her realize all the more clearly the dangers constantly surrounding her son.  Fatality appeared to be warning her with funereal presentiments.