e
rest. We were intrenched behind a small eminence which hid us from our
enemies, with little hope of long escaping their observation. It had
been wet and cold, and there had been no hot food for days. We, French
and Americans, had fought long and hard; we were in no state to stand
suspense, yet there was nothing to do but wait for a move on the other
side, a move which could end in only one way--bayonets and bare hands,
and I, for one, hated it.

I think the others hated it, too, all but Randolph. The rain had stopped
and the moon flooded the world. He turned his face up to it and dreamed.

The knowledge came to us before midnight that the Huns had found us. It
became only a matter of moments before they would be upon us, the thing
would happen which we hated--bayonets and bare hands, with the chances
in favor of the enemy!

Somewhere among our men rose a whimper of fear, and then another. You
see, they were cold and hungry and some of them were wounded, and they
were cut off from hope. It wasn't cowardice. I call no man a coward.
They had faced death a thousand times, some of them. Yet there was
danger in their fears.

Randolph was next to me. "My God, MacDonald," he said, "they've lost
their nerve--"

There wasn't a second to spare. I saw him doing something to his hat.

As I have said, there was a moon. It lighted that battle-scarred world
with a sort of wild beauty, and suddenly in a clear space above us on
the little hill a figure showed, motionless against the still white
night--a figure small yet commanding, three-cornered hat pulled low--oh,
you have seen it in pictures a thousand times--Napoleon of Marengo, of
Austerlitz, of Jena, of Friedland--but over and above everything,
Napoleon of France!

Of course the Germans shot him. But when they came over the top they
were met by Frenchmen who had seen a ghost. "C'est l'Empereur! C'est
l'Empereur!" they had gasped. "He returns to lead us."

They fought like devils, and--well, the rest of us fought, too, and all
the time, throughout the bloody business, I had before me that vision of
Randolph alone in the moonlight. Or was it Randolph? Who knows? Do great
souls find time for such small business? And was it small?

His medals were, of course, sent to the colonel. But the violets in the
little book went back to mademoiselle. And the old hat, crushed into
three-cornered shape, went back. And I told her what he had done.

She wrote to me in her stiff English