Recovering himself, Lanstron told the story of Partow's going, which was in keeping with his life and his prayers. As the doctor put it, the light of his mind, turned on full voltage to the last, went out without a flicker. Through the day he had attended to the dispositions for receiving the Grays' attack, enlivening routine as usual with flashes of humor and reflection ranging beyond the details in hand. An hour or so before dark he had reached across the table and laid his big, soft palm on the back of Lanstron's hand. He was thinking aloud, a habit of his, in Lanstron's company, when an idea requiring gestation came to him. "My boy, it is not fatal if we lose the apron of Engadir. The defences behind it are very strong." "No, not fatal," Lanstron agreed. "But it's very important." "And Westerling will think it fatal. Yes, I understand his character. Yes--yes; and if our counter-attack should fail, then Miss Galland's position would be secure. Hm-m-m--those whom the gods would destroy--hm-m-m. Westerling will be convinced that repeated, overwhelming attacks will gain our main line. Instead of using engineering approaches, he will throw his battalions, masses upon masses, against our works until his strength is spent. It would be baiting the bull. A risk--a risk--but, my boy, I am going to--" Partow's head, which was bent in thought, dropped with a jerk. A convulsion shook him and he fell forward onto the map, his brave old heart in its last flutter, and Lanstron was alone in the silent room with the dead and his responsibility. "The order that I knew he was about to speak, Marta, I gave for him," Lanstron concluded. "It seemed to me an inspiration--his last inspiration--to make the counter-attack a feint." "And you're acting chief of staff, Lanny? You against Westerling?" "Yes." XL WITH FRACASSE'S MEN We have heard nothing of Jacob Pilzer, the butcher's son, and Peterkin, the valet's son, and others of Fracasse's company of the 128th of the Grays since Hugo Mallin threw down his rifle when they were firing on scattered Brown soldiers in retreat. It was in one of the minor actions of the step-by-step advance after the taking of the Galland house that the judge's son received official notice of a holiday in the form of a nickel pellet from the Browns which made a clean, straight hole the size of a lead pencil through his flesh and then went singing on its way without deflection, as if it liked to give respites from travail to tired soldiers. "Grazed the ribs--no arteries!" remarked the examining surgeon. "You'll be well in a month." "We'll hold the war for you!" called the banker's son cheerily after the still figure on the stretcher. "And you'll get gruel and custards, maybe," said the barber's son. "I like custards."