Desnoyers, too, uniting his thoughts with hers, was seeing again the pampas, the immense green plains of the ranch where he had become acquainted with his wife.  Again he could hear the tread of the herds.  He recalled Madariaga on tranquil nights proclaiming, under the splendor of the stars, the joys of peace, the sacred brotherhood of these people of most diverse extraction, united by labor, abundance and the lack of political ambition.

And as his thoughts swung back to the lost son he, too, exclaimed with his wife, “Oh, why did we ever come? . . .”  He, too, with the solidarity of grief, began to sympathize with those on the other side of the battle front.  They were suffering just as he was; they had lost their sons.  Human grief is the same everywhere.

But then he revolted against his commiseration.  Karl had been an advocate of this war.  He was among those who had looked upon war as the perfect state for mankind, who had prepared it with their provocations.  It was just that War should devour his sons; he ought not to bewail their loss. . . .  But he who had always loved Peace!  He who had only one son, only one! . . . and now he was losing him forever! . . .

He was going to die; he was sure that he was going to die. . . .  Only a few months of life were left in him.  And his pitiful, devoted companion kneeling at his feet, she, too, would soon pass away.  She could not long survive the blow which they had just received.  There was nothing further for them to do; nobody needed them any longer.

Their daughter was thinking only of herself, of founding a separate home interest—­with the hard instinct of independence which separates children from their parents in order that humanity may continue its work of renovation.

Julio was the only one who would have prolonged the family, passing on the name.  The Desnoyers had died; his daughter’s children would be Lacour. . . .  All was ended.

Don Marcelo even felt a certain satisfaction in thinking of his approaching death.  More than anything else, he wished to pass out of the world.  He no longer had any curiosity as to the end of this war in which he had been so interested.  Whatever the end might be, it would be sure to turn out badly.  Although the Beast might be mutilated, it would again come forth years afterward, as the eternal curse of mankind. . . .  For him the only important thing now was that the war had robbed him of his son.  All was gloomy, all was black.  The world was going to its ruin. . . .  He was going to rest.

Chichi had clambered up on the hillock which contained, perhaps, more than their dead.  With furrowed brow, she was contemplating the plain.  Graves . . . graves everywhere!  The recollection of Julio had already passed to second place in her mind.  She could not bring him back, no matter how much she might weep.

This vision of the fields of death made her think all the more of the living.  As her eyes roved from side to side, she tried, with her hands, to keep down the whirling of her wind-tossed skirts.  Rene was standing at the foot of the knoll, and several times after a sweeping glance at the numberless mounds around them, she looked thoughtfully at him, as though trying to establish a relationship between her husband and those below.  And he had exposed his life in combats just as these men had done! . . .