o a precipice. His sense of
happiness had left him, and he began to dread the end of his
cogitations. There was a trial in store that he was afraid of facing.
In order to postpone it he went over all his friends and relations
again, and added mere acquaintances to the list. He busied himself in
this way for an hour or two, but at last the final question forced
itself upon him and insisted upon an answer. Would he be willing to
shoot Marian under orders? It was with misgivings that he began to
imagine this episode. As before, he marched to his place and lifted his
rifle to aim. He sees before him the figure which had been haunting his
dreams ever since he left East Point. She is bound; a handkerchief is
tied over her eyes, but he sees the mouth and longs to kiss it. He has
a strong impulse to run forward and throw his arms around her. The
command "Fire!" is given, but--he does not shoot. He can not. He has
disobeyed orders! He, the man whose one aim in life has been to become
a perfect soldier, who only just now was considering himself fit to be
a soldier of the war-lord, had disobeyed orders; he had shown himself a
mutineer, a deserter, a traitor; he had lost his patriotism and
loyalty; he had dishonored the flag; he had trampled under foot all the
gods that he had worshiped now for many years. He had flatly broken
the only code of morals that he knew--he was a coward, a hypocrite, a
mere civilian, masquerading in the uniform of an officer! Sam buried
his face in his hands and the tears trickled down through his fingers.
Then he sprang up and walked to and fro for a long time. At last he
took Marian's photograph from his pocket and put it on his
dressing-table. He must be a man. He must hold true to his faith. He
screwed up his courage and went through the forms of the afternoon in
his room dimly lighted by lanterns in the street. He stood up in the
line before the Emperor, and again listened to his inspiring speech.
Now he felt sure that he would not fail. He placed himself opposite the
photograph when the order was given. He raised an imaginary gun and
aimed with assurance--but just then his eye fell upon the face which he
could barely distinguish. He saw Marian again as she had been when he
bade her farewell. True, she was as much a believer in the military
scheme of life as he was, but he knew by instinct that she would draw
the line somewhere. She was not created to be a martyr to h