He concluded: "I can no longer regard as valuable the work which as an officer it is my duty to perform, and have therefore decided to resign my commission. Although I am only one small wheel in a large and complicated machine, I have still the right to give my opinion; and I am making use of that right because I recognise that the mechanical power which drives this machine is threatened with paralysis, and will, in my view, infallibly succumb unless there is an entire reconstruction of the whole fabric. That, I fear, is not to be expected within any reasonable time." He laid down his pen, and looked thoughtfully at the closely written sheets. Everything that he had set down had been well considered and frequently thought over; but was it right, after all, to send in his application just at this moment? Was it right for him to break the vow he had made to himself that he would test himself carefully, that he would pass a year in command of the battery before making his final decision? Ought he not to stand by the calling to which his life had been dedicated, until he could resign quite voluntarily, fully convinced, and without any extraneous considerations? Without, for instance, the danger of losing his life through the custom of this calling--a custom, just or unjust, but which at any rate was in operation and perfectly well known to him? The lamp under the green shade began to burn less brightly, and flickered with a quick hissing sound. The hands of the cuckoo-clock pointed to half-past four. Güntz got up and stretched himself. He walked firmly to the window, pushed the curtains far back, and opened both sides of the casement. Outside the warm summer's night was giving place to the dawn of day. A cool morning breeze blew into the room, fluttering the curtains, and extinguishing the lamp's weak flame. It cooled the man's eyes and filled his lungs with fresh air. Güntz drew himself up. He returned to the writing-table, placed the loose leaves carefully in order, and locked them in a drawer. Right or wrong he would keep his word. He scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper: "My Kläre, I love you unspeakably. You and the boy. Be brave!" He glanced round to see where he should lay the paper. In the end he folded it up, and put it under a meteoric stone, shaped like a fungus, which during their honeymoon he had found on the sand-dunes of the Heligoland coast. The servant knocked, and brought in the coffee. He had found the senior-lieutenant's bed untouched, and his face showed his surprise. The coffee was too hot, but the water in the carafe was deliciously cold. Güntz damped his handkerchief and wiped the ravages of the night from his brow and eyes. Then he went again to the window and the refreshing morning breeze. He was in good spirits. He felt as if nothing untoward could happen to him that day.