The Boche had understood, and already began to feel happy at the success of his demand. The words of the sergeant were translated: “Monsieur, for the two months that the company has been under your orders I have had the opportunity of appreciating you at your full value, and I should be sorry, and my companions also, if the chances of war should reserve you a fate that in all justice should not be yours. I am convinced that the wishes expressed by me, and written on this paper, will be fully and literally carried out, if one day you should fall into the hands of my fellow-countrymen and should be obliged to have recourse to my certificate.” And to forestall an expression of thanks from the Boche: “Do not thank me. I have only treated you as you deserve, and I am happy to have acted as my conscience bids me, and to think that humanity will have reason to be grateful to me for what I do. No;” said he, as the Boche advanced to shake hands, “let our relations remain as they were in the past.” Bitter was standing ready to leave the room. “Just a moment,” said the sergeant, “while I read to my friends this note, which they will certainly approve of.” With a pale face, but in a clear, firm tone, like a judge pronouncing sentence, the sergeant began: “An order is given to the French soldier into whose hands the soldier Bitter, the bearer of this note, may fall, to give him no quarter. Bitter has had under his command a company of French prisoners, and has done all in his power to render insupportable a captivity already too painful. “(Signed) T----.” Bitter took the note, folded it carefully and slipped it into his letter-case. All trace of anger and indignation had left the faces of the French. Gravely they saluted the German as he went out, with the respect that they would have shown in the presence of death. But even more than the man who went out it was the sergeant whom they saluted, for they felt how much this death-sentence had cost him. Bent down, worn out by this scene, in which he had had to bear the scorn of the French, Bitter gained the door. He was no longer the Bitter that had entered even twenty-four hours ago, arrogant, with head erect and flashing eyes, the uncontested master before whom all must give way. This time he was going to meet his destiny, the miserable man; that on which he had built all his hopes, that bit of paper, to possess which he had degraded his soul; those few lines contained his death-warrant. * * * * * History does not tell what happened to Bitter--if he is still living, if he finished his race as a hero with an unknown death, or if, after having shown himself a coward of cowards, he was killed like a dog while begging for a life which was not worth the meanness he committed to preserve it. [Illustration]