e fled back to the
lodge.

He passed the remainder of the morning with his elbow on the table, his
head in his hands, the same as the day before, letting the hours grind
slowly by, trying not to hear the rolling of the vehicles that were
bearing away these credentials of his wealth.

Toward midday, the Keeper announced that an officer who had arrived a
few hours before in an automobile was inquiring for him.

Responding to this summons, Desnoyers encountered outside the lodge,
a captain arrayed like the others in sheathed and pointed helmet,
in mustard-colored uniform, red leather boots, sword, revolver,
field-glasses and geographic map hanging in a case from his belt. He
appeared young; on his sleeve was the staff emblem.

"Do you know me? . . . I did not wish to pass through here without
seeing you."

He spoke in Castilian, and Don Marcelo felt greater surprise at this
than at the many things which he had been experiencing so painfully
during the last twenty-four hours.

"You really do not know me?" queried the German, always in Spanish. "I
am Otto. . . . Captain Otto von Hartrott."

The old man's mind went painfully down the staircase of memory, stopping
this time at a far-distant landing. There he saw the old ranch, and his
brother-in-law announcing the birth of his second son. "I shall give
him Bismarck's name," Karl had said. Then, climbing back past many other
platforms, Desnoyers saw himself in Berlin during his visit to the
von Hartrott home where they were speaking proudly of Otto, almost
as learned as the older brother, but devoting his talents entirely to
martial matters. He was then a lieutenant and studying for admission to
the General Staff. "Who knows but he may turn out to be another Moltke?"
said the proud father . . . and the charming Chichi had thereupon
promptly bestowed upon the warlike wonder a nickname, accepted through
the family. From that time, Otto was Moltkecito (the baby Moltke) to his
Parisian relatives.

Desnoyers was astounded by the transformation which had meanwhile taken
place in the youth. This vigorous captain with the insolent air who
might shoot him at any minute was the same urchin whom he had seen
running around the ranch, the beardless Moltkecito who had been the butt
of his daughter's ridicule. . . .

The soldier, meanwhile, was explaining his presence there. He belonged
to another division. There were many . . . many! They were advancing
rapidly, forming an extens