cease
my crying. They erected us like targets against the brick wall, and I
set to my prayers. But when they had retired from us and were preparing
themselves to fire, I had the grace to put the young girl behind me. For
I said, if I must die, there is no need that the young maid should also
die--at least, not till I am dead. I heard the bullets spit against the
wall, fired by those farthest away; but those in front were only
preparing.

Then at that moment something seemed to retard them, for instead of
making an end to us, they turned about and listened uncertainly.

Outside on the street, there came a great flurry of cheering people,
crying like folk that weep for joy--"Vive la ligne! Vive la ligne! The
soldiers of the Line! The soldiers of the Line!"

The door was burst from its hinges. The wide outer gate was filled with
soldiers in dusty uniforms. The Versaillists were in the city.

"Vive la ligne!" cried the watchers on the house-tops. "Vive la ligne!"
cried we, that were set like human targets against the wall. "Vive la
ligne!" cried the poor wounded, staggering up on an elbow to wave a hand
to the men that came to Mazas in the nick of time.

Then there was a slaughter indeed. The Communists fought like tigers,
asking no quarter. They were shot down by squads, regularly and with
ceremony. And we in our turn snatched their own rifles and revolvers and
shot them down also.... "_Coming, Frau Wittwe! So fort!_" ...

* * * * *

And the rest--well, the rest is, that I have a wife and seven beautiful
children. Yes, "The girl I left behind me," as your song sings. Ah, a
joke. But the seven children are no joke, young Kerl, as you may one day
find.

And why am I Oberkellner at the Prinz Karl in Heidelberg? Ah, gentlemen,
I see you do not know. In the winter it is as you see it; but all the
summer and autumn--what with Americans and English, it is better to be
Oberkellner to Madame the Frau Wittwe than to be Prince of
Kennenlippeschoenberghartenau!

V

THE CASE OF JOHN ARNISTON'S CONSCIENCE

_Hail, World adored! to thee three times all hail!
We at thy mighty shrine--profane, obscure
With clenched hands beat at thy cruel door,
O hear, awake, and let us in, O Baal!_

_Low at thy brazen gates ourselves we fling--
Hear us, even us, thy bondmen firm and sure,
Our kin, our souls, our very God abjure!
Art thou asleep, or dead, or journeying?_

_Be