“How do you like my report on your camp?” I asked. “Now, don’t you agree with me that you should be court-martialled?” Heinze’s anger exploded like a shell. “You should be court-martialled yourself!” he shouted. “You are insulting our good General. For me, I do not care. But you shall not reflect upon my commanding officer, for him I--” “That will do, Captain Heinze,” Laguerre said, quietly. “That will do, thank you.” He did not look up at either of us, but for some time sat with his elbow on his knee and with his chin resting in the palm of his hand, staring at the camp. There was a long, and, for me, an awkward silence. The General turned his head and stared at me. His expression was exceedingly grave, but without resentment. “You are quite right,” he said, finally. Heinze and Aiken moved expectantly forward, anxious to hear him pass sentence upon me. Seeing this he raised his voice and repeated: “You are quite right in what you say about the camp. All you say is quite true.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and, as he continued speaking with his face averted, it was as though he were talking to himself. “We grow careless as we grow older,” he said, “One grows less difficult to please.” His tone was that of a man excusing himself to himself. “The old standards, the old models, pass away and--and failures, failures come and dull the energy.” His voice dropped into a monotone; he seemed to have forgotten us entirely. It must have been then that for the first time I saw the wistful look come into his eyes, and suddenly felt deeply sorry for him and wished that I might dare to tell him so. I was not sorry for any act or speech of mine. They had attacked me, and I had only defended myself. I was not repentant for anything I had said; my sorrow was for what I read in the General’s eyes as he sat staring out into the valley. It was the saddest and loneliest look that I had ever seen. There was no bitterness in it, but great sadness and weariness and disappointment, and above all, loneliness, utter and complete loneliness. He glanced up and saw me watching him, and for a moment regarded me curiously, and then, as though I had tried to force my way into his solitude, turned his eyes quickly away. I had forgotten that I was a suspected spy until the fact was recalled to me at that moment by the reappearance of Major Reeder. He came bustling past me, carrying as I saw, to my great indignation, the sword which had been presented to my grandfather, and which my grandfather had given to me. I sprang after him and twisted it out of his hand. “How dare you!” I cried. “You have opened my trunk! How dare you pry into my affairs? General Laguerre!” I protested. “I appeal to you, sir.” “Major Reeder,” the General demanded, sharply, “what does this mean?” “I was merely seeking evidence, General,” said Reeder. “You asked for his papers, and I went to look for them.”