stened while he told us what he
thought of us.

At last one who was braver than the rest cried out: "Go to it,
Bonaparte!"

In a sudden flashing change Randolph hunched his shoulders, set his
slouched hat sidewise low on his brows, wrapped the couch-cover like a
cloak about him. His glance swept the room. There was no anger in it,
just a sort of triumphant mockery as he gave the famous speech to
Berthier.

"They send us a challenge in which our honor is at stake--a thing a
Frenchman has never refused--and since a beautiful queen wishes to be a
witness to the combat, let us be courteous, and in order not to keep her
waiting, _let us march without sleeping as far as Saxony--_!"

I can't tell you of the effect it had on us. We were gripped by the
throats, and the room was so still that we heard ourselves breathe. Four
of the fellows left next day with Randolph. I think he might have taken
us all if we had not been advised and held back by the protests of our
professors, who spoke of war with abhorrence.

II

Three years later I saw him again, in France. Our own country had gotten
into the fight by that time, and I was caught in the first draft. I had
heard now and then from Randolph. He had worked for nearly three years
with the Ambulance Corps, and was now fighting for democracy with his
fellows.

We had been shivering in the rain for a week in one of the recaptured
French towns when a group of seasoned officers were sent to lick us into
shape. Among the other officers was Randolph, and when he came upon me
he gave a shout of welcome.

"Good old MacDonald--at last!"

I'll confess that his "at last" carried a sting, and I remember feeling
the injustice of our equal rank, as I set his years of privation and
hardship against my few weeks in a training camp.

He was very glad to see me, and the very first night he made me a
Brunswick stew. This time there were no squirrels, but he begged young
rabbits from the old couple who had once been servants in the chateau
where we were billeted. They had trudged back at once on the retirement
of the Boches, and were making the best of the changed conditions.

There was, of course, no chafing-dish, and the stew was cooked in an
iron pot which hung over an open fire in the ancient kitchen. Before
they sold the rabbits the old people had made one condition:

"If we may have a bit for mademoiselle--?"

"For mademoiselle?"

"She is here with us, monsieur. She had no