ay, and he plunged with splendid energy into the German campaign
of 1813, with its singular alternations of success and failure, of
victory and defeat, of glory and shame. He had been lucky enough to
win his captain's commission, and now, as a major, with a position on
the staff of the Emperor, he could look forward to rapid advancement so
long as the Emperor lasted. With the bright optimism of youth, even
though affairs were now so utterly hopeless that the wise old marshals
despaired, Marteau felt that his foot was on the first rung of the
ladder of fame and prosperity, and, in spite of himself, as he had
approached his native village, he had begun to dream again, almost to
hope.

There was something ominous, however, in the appearance of the village
in that dark gray evening hour. There were no barking dogs, no
clucking hens, no lowing cattle, no sounds of childish laughter, no
sturdy-voiced men or softer-spoken women exchanging greetings. The
stables and sheds were strangely silent.

The village was a small one. He turned into it, entered the first
house, stumbled over a corpse! The silence was of death. With a
beating heart and with a strength he did not know he possessed, he
turned aside and ran straight to his father's house.

Standing by itself it was a larger, better and more inviting house than
the others. The gate of the surrounding stone wall was battered off
the hinges, the front door of the house was open, the garden was
trampled. The house had been half destroyed. A dead dog lay in front
of the door. He could see all that in the half light. He ran down the
path and burst into the wrecked and plundered living room. A few
feeble embers still glowed in the broad hearth. From them he lighted a
candle standing on the mantel shelf.

The first sight that greeted him was the body of his sister, her torn
clothing in frightful disarray, a look of agony and horror upon her
white set face under its dishevelled hair. She was stone dead. He
knelt down and touched her. She was stone cold, too. He stared at
her, a groan bursting from his lips. The groan brought forth another
sound. Was it an echo? Lifting the candle, he looked about him. In a
far corner lay a huddled human body. He ran to it and bent over it.
It was his father. Knowing the house like a book, he ran and fetched
some water. There were a few mouthfuls of spirits left in a flask of
vodka he had found in the Russian's overcoat. H