Paul did not answer. He remembered Prince Conrad's abominable words, quoted by Élisabeth in her diary: "It is war. It is the law, the law of war." He felt the tremendous weight of that law bearing upon him, but he felt at the same time that he was obeying it in its noblest and loftiest phase, the sacrifice of the individual to everything demanded by the safety of the nation. The law of war? No, the duty of war; and a duty so imperious that a man does not discuss it and that, implacable though it be, he must not even allow the merest quiver of a complaint to stir in his secret soul. Whether Élisabeth was faced by death or by dishonor did not concern Sergeant Paul Delroze and could not make him turn for a second from the path which he was ordered to follow. He was a soldier first and a man afterwards. He owed no duty save to France, his sorely-stricken and beloved country. He carefully folded up Élisabeth's diary and went out, followed by his brother-in-law. At nightfall he left the Château d'Ornequin. CHAPTER XI "YSERY, MISERY" Toul, Bar-le-Duc, Vitry-le-François. . . . The little towns sped past as the long train carried Paul and Bernard westwards into France. Other, numberless trains came before or after theirs, laden with troops and munitions of war. They reached the outskirts of Paris and turned north, passing through Beauvais, Amiens and Arras. It was necessary that they should arrive there first, on the frontier, to join the heroic Belgians and to join them as high up as possible. Every mile of ground covered was so much territory snatched from the invader during the long immobilized war that was in preparation. Second Lieutenant Paul Delroze--he had received his new rank in the course of the railway journey--accomplished the northward march as it were in a dream, fighting every day, risking his life every minute, leading his men with irresistible dash, but all as though he were doing it without his own cognizance, in obedience to the automatic operation of a predetermined will. While Bernard continued to stake his life with a laugh, as though in play, keeping up his comrade's courage with his own light-hearted pluck, Paul remained speechless and absent. Everything--fatigue, privations, the weather--seemed to him a matter of indifference. Nevertheless, it was an immense delight, as he would sometimes confess to Bernard, to be going towards the fighting line. He had the feeling that he was making for a definite object, the only one that interested him: Élisabeth's deliverance. Even though he was attacking this frontier and not the other, the eastern frontier, he was still rushing with all the strength of his hatred against the detested enemy. Whether that enemy was defeated here or there made little difference. In either case, Élisabeth would be free.