ore faintly as the regiment moved steadily away. There is
always pain in such a growing distance. But it was not all pain to
the tear-stained girl upon the balcony. She had her part in that
glory. Had she not, too, made her sacrifice.

It was quite as if the regiment had sailed away under sealed
orders. Metz and Nancy had been broadcasted about as the
objective of the 231st. But that had been just a blind for German
informers. For the next communique mentioning the regiment
came from far to the west, where it had been hurried to hold up the
grave threat upon Paris. At Soissons the gray-green advance
rolled itself up against the red and blue of the 231st.

Back and forth the battle line surged through the old streets, now
lurid with the light of blazing houses. A shell falling on the town-hall
fired this ancient land-mark. A great flame-fountain burst up from
the heart of the city. "Rescue the archives!" was the cry. For this,
volunteers were called. The dash of a sergeant and his men into
the burning hall and back again through the bullet-spattered
streets is related in the Journal Officiel. It tells of the safe return of
the archives, but of few survivors. For impetuous valor in this
exploit, the name of Sergeant le Marchand was changed to
Lieutenant le Marchand.

That was my last tidings of Marie and Robert, until a year later a
letter came to me in a shaky but familiar hand. It had the post-
mark of Hornell Sanitarium, New York. It was from Marie, and one
glance revealed the tragedy. Briefly it was this:

In the attempted Champagne drive of 1915 the 231st regiment
was ordered to rush the barbed wire barricade and drive a wedge
into the enemy's line. At command Lieutenant le Marchand leaped
from cover to lead the charge of his men. Scarcely had he uttered
his cry, "En avant!" when he was dropped in his tracks, a bullet
through his brain. Over his body, with revenge adding to their fury,
the regiment swept like mad. The trenches, a quarry of prisoners,
and the thrill of high praise from the general were theirs--a triumph
with a bitter taste, for some, creeping back, had found their young
lieutenant crumpled where he fell, the moonlight cold upon his
blood-stained face. "In order that France might live he was willing
to close his eyes upon her forever." Curiously his sword was
sticking upright just as it had dropped from his hand. They buried
him where he lay upon the edge of No-Man's-Land. Tears were
showered on