ive and solid wall from Verdun to Paris. His
general had sent him to maintain the contact with the next division, but
finding himself near the castle, he had wished to visit it. A family tie
was not a mere word. He still remembered the days that he had spent at
Villeblanche when the Hartrott family had paid a long visit to their
relatives in France. The officials now occupying the edifice had
detained him that he might lunch with them. One of them had casually
mentioned that the owner of the castle was somewhere about although
nobody knew exactly where. This had been a great surprise to Captain von
Hartrott who had tried to find him, regretting to see him taking refuge
in the Warden's quarters.

"You must leave this hut; you are my uncle," he said haughtily. "Return
to your castle where you belong. My comrades will be much pleased to
make your acquaintance; they are very distinguished men."

He very much regretted whatever the old gentleman might have suffered.
. . . He did not know exactly in what that suffering had consisted, but
surmised that the first moments of the invasion had been cruel ones for
him.

"But what else can you expect?" he repeated several times. "That is
war."

At the same time he approved of his having remained on his property.
They had special orders to seize the goods of the fugitives. Germany
wished the inhabitants to remain in their dwellings as though nothing
extraordinary had occurred. . . . Desnoyers protested. . . . "But if the
invaders were shooting the innocent ones and burning their homes!" . . .
His nephew prevented his saying more. He turned pale, an ashy hue
spreading over his face; his eyes snapped and his face trembled like
that of the lieutenant who had taken possession of the castle.

"You refer to the execution of the mayor and the others. My comrades
have just been telling me about it; yet that castigation was very mild;
they should have completely destroyed the entire village. They should
have killed even the women and children. We've got to put an end to
these sharpshooters."

His uncle looked at him in amazement. His Moltkecito was as formidable
and ferocious as the others. . . . But the captain brought the
conversation to an abrupt close by repeating the monstrous and
everlasting excuse.

"Very horrible, but what else can you expect! . . . That is war."

He then inquired after his mother, rejoicing to learn that she was in
the South. He had been uneasy at the idea