There was a good deal to do in the orderly-room. This new batch of sixty recruits meant a large amount of work that must be seen to at once, if the wilderness of papers were ever to be brought into some sort of order.

Three men sat bending over their writing: a bombardier, a corporal, and the sergeant-major.

The bombardier was doggedly filling in the lists, only glancing occasionally to see if the pile of forms still to be got through were not growing somewhat smaller.

KÄppchen, the corporal, a lanky fellow with cunning eyes, grumbled from time to time at the trouble, and consigned to perdition the dirty rascals who caused it. Of course it was much pleasanter for him to sit in the orderly-room than to be messing about with the idiots out of doors; but he had never bargained for having to scribble away till he nearly got writer's cramp. And to-day the sergeant-major didn't even seem to be thinking of a pause for luncheon.

It therefore happened very opportunely when Captain von Wegstetten, having scarcely listened to the sergeant-major's report, "Nothing new in the battery," said: "Sergeant Schumann, I want to speak to you for a minute."

No further intimation was needed; KÄppchen and the bombardier disappeared from the room instantly.

Sergeant Schumann stood by his table in the orthodox attitude of respectful attention. As on every day of the eight years during which Wegstetten had commanded the sixth battery, and he, Schumann, had been its sergeant-major, he waited until the former by a gesture or a word should permit him to assume an easier position. Nothing could alter this; not even the confidence that time had gradually established between them.

Wegstetten motioned him kindly to a seat, and then bent over the records of the recruits.

"Well, Schumann," he began, "what sort of a lot have we got this time?"

"It doesn't seem a bad year, sir," answered the sergeant-major; "they've nearly all got clean sheets----"

"Hm," assented the officer, "nearly all, but----?"

"Two have been convicted, one of theft, the other of resisting lawful authority. The first made away with a quantity of copper wire from a building; and the second made a row because he was notified that he had contravened some regulations as to driving. He was a cab-driver. Then there is another who has been punished for begging, tramping the streets, and sleeping out at nights."

"Well, he won't catch cold camping out, at any rate! What do you think, sergeant? mustn't a chap like that be glad to have a good roof over his head every night? Well, go on! What about political antecedents?"

"There is only one marked for that, sir--Gustav Weise."

Wegstetten began to polish his eye-glasses; then, "Read it aloud, Schumann," he said.

The sergeant-major took the paper and read: "Weise has more than once taken an active part in socialist propaganda; in spite of his youth he was for a time confidential agent for the Metal Workers' Union, and sometimes spoke at meetings, without, however, necessitating the interference of the police-officer in attendance, as Weise's communications chiefly referred to details of the trade."

"Nothing further? He seems a promising fellow! Where have we put him?"

"In Room IX., Corporal Wiegandt."

"Does he know----?"

"Yes, sir, I've mentioned it to him."

"Right. Call him in; I'll speak to him, and afterwards to Frielinghausen."

"Very good, sir."

In a few minutes the little bearded corporal was in the room and awaiting his captain's pleasure.

The officer appealed to the honour of his subordinate, in whom he was placing a special trust, and impressed upon him in carefully chosen language the necessity for keeping a watchful eye on the new recruit Weise, without, however, treating him differently from his comrades.

Wiegandt thereupon felt called on to describe and commend Weise's smartness and good humour.

Wegstetten listened, a fleeting smile once passing over his face. At the end he said: "Well, that's another proof that this sort often turn out good soldiers. You understand what I have said, Wiegandt? A sharp eye, and a firm grip on the rein; otherwise--just as with the rest of them."

"Very good, sir."

"That's all then."

When Wiegandt had gone, the officer turned to the sergeant-major and said with a sigh, "Damned nuisances they are! Now we've got two of these fellows, Wolf and Weise, we must see they don't get together. How is Wolf doing?"

"No fault to find with him, sir."

Wegstetten walked to the window and looked out silently. This was not the lightest part of an officer's duty, this supervision of the suspicious political element among the men. A perfect task of Sisyphus, indeed! After all, one could do nothing more than prevent the fellows from spouting their wisdom as long as they were soldiers, make them keep to the beaten track, give them "patriotism and the joys of a soldier's life" for their watchword. What sort of a fanatic was this Wolf? A man who had been handed over to him labelled "Poison!" with four cross-bones and a death's-head; who put on an expressionless face when his opinions were alluded to, and to the question "Are you a social-democrat?" answered with a stereotyped, almost sarcastic, "No, sir," and always went about looking as dark as a regular conspirator!

He turned round and began again: "Do you know, Schumann, I shall be glad when Wolf is off our hands. The man strikes me as almost uncanny. And then that Sergeant Keyser; he's a revengeful, resentful kind of fellow. He'll never forgive Wolf the six weeks he had on his account. Just see to it that the two have as little to do with one another as possible. Of course he'd never really do anything to a fellow like that; but it's always as well to be on the safe side. I'm not going to have another rumpus in my battery, with the whole lot of them had up as witnesses for three days on end! And that Keyser must mind what he's about. After all, we can't have the army turned into a big incubator for social-democrats."

"Very good, sir. And as Keyser has got charge of the kit-room now, that's easily arranged."

Any mention of this affair of Keyser and Wolf always rekindled Wegstetten's anger. Had he not himself been publicly shamed by it, as it had taken place in his battery? It had only been a trifle at bottom; such rough words as the sergeant had hurled at Wolf's head were daily showered on the men; but this social-democrat had, of course, a quite peculiar sense of personal dignity, and the stupid thing was that they had had to allow him to be in the right. For these zoological comparisons were strictly forbidden. An inquiry had been held about the sergeant's conduct, and then such a crowd of other "oxen," "pigs," and "donkeys," had appeared in the witness-box, that the commanding officer of the battery had felt quite giddy, and the presiding judge had perpetrated the cheap witticism that the entire German army might have been fed for a month on the cattle that the defendant had bullied into existence. He, Wegstetten, had hardly been in a humour to enjoy the joke, when the senior major (that detestable Lischke, in whose bad books he already stood), who was commanding the regiment during the colonel's absence on leave, had taken him aside and lectured him about the rough tone that seemed to prevail in the sixth battery. Wegstetten had taken it much to heart, and as he made the stiff little bow that formality prescribed, he had sworn a grim oath that never, no, never, should such a sickening business occur again in his battery. To have affairs like this connected with one's name had been for many the beginning of the end. And he was ambitious; he meant to go far.

He turned once more to the sergeant-major. "But it will be all right," he said, "at any rate so long as I have you, Schumann. I can depend on you. God knows, I should be pretty furious if you thought of deserting the colours."

The sergeant-major looked somewhat embarrassed: "Forgive me, sir. I shall have seen eighteen years' service come Easter; and however glad I might be to stop on, still--a man ought to provide for his old age. Schmidt, of the fourth battery, left four years ago, and he's got a good post as assistant station-master."

Wegstetten reassured him: "You mustn't think I was serious, Schumann. I know better than any one what you've gone through and what I have to thank you for, and I shall wish you good luck with all my heart when you go. But you must feel for me, and understand how hard it will be for me to do with-out you. If I only knew who could take your place!"

The sergeant-major shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, speak out; you know the men better even than I do."

Schumann hesitated a little, and then said: "You know yourself, sir; Heppner is the next in seniority."

"Of course," said Wegstetten rather testily, "I know that. But I know, too, that you have something in your mind against him. What's the matter with Heppner? Isn't he steady in his work and first-rate in the stables?"

The sergeant-major answered slowly: "In his work, and as far as the horses are concerned--oh, yes."

"But----?"

Schumann shrugged his shoulders again.

The captain began to be angry. "Good God, man! so----" but he swallowed the sentence and continued more mildly: "Look here, Schumann. I'm not asking you for any gossip about your comrades; I only speak in the interest of the service. What is all this about Heppner? Is it that story about his wife and his sister-in-law?"

"No, sir, that's his private affair. But he won't do for the office, or to--to assist in money matters."

"But why?"

"He gambles, sir."

Wegstetten walked up and down the room for a few moments, plunged in thought; then came to a stand in front of the sergeant-major.

"Thank you for being so open with me, Schumann," he said; "but I don't see how we can avoid it. Heppner has served eleven years, the colonel likes him well enough,--and he really is a capable man in all practical work."

He looked at the clock and went on: "Thank goodness, you will be here another six months, and we shall be able to get this year's recruits well started. Now it's half-past ten, and I must be off to the riding-school. What else was there? Oh yes, Frielinghausen. Have him here at eleven." And with a friendly "Good morning, Schumann," he left the room.

Schumann sat down again to his writing; but he did not take up the pen. What his captain had said about "desertion" kept running in his head. He himself sometimes had the feeling that it would be wrong of him to quit the service. Especially now, when these new-fangled ways made men of the good old stamp all the more necessary.

He had worked his way upwards through long years of service, only getting promotion by slow degrees; and eight years ago he had been made sergeant-major, Wegstetten getting his battery on the self-same day. Nowadays any young fool of a gunner might be made bombardier in a year, in another six months corporal, and then be set to teach others. Raw, empty-headed fellows that only thought of their own comfort, and disappeared from barracks the moment their time of service had expired, without leaving a trace behind. Chaps without the least pride or interest in the service;--nice sort of non-commissioned officers!

He looked round. Just so; KÄppchen was still away. Where was that lazy beggar? and where was the bombardier? He shut up his book and went off on the hunt.

The bombardier was waiting outside the door: he "thought the captain was still in the orderly-room." That might be true, of course. He didn't know where KÄppchen was.

The sergeant-major knew where to look, and went straight to the canteen. There indeed was KÄppchen, just lighting a cigarette, after wiping from his thin black beard the froth of a freshly-drawn glass of beer.

Schumann would not make a fuss before the other non-commissioned officers who were standing about, so only said: "KÄppchen, you're wanted in the orderly-room." Whereupon the corporal was off like a shot, not even finishing his beer.

Wegstetten sauntered along the sandy road that led from the riding-school to the barracks. Now and then he stopped to switch off the dust scattered over him by the galloping hoofs. Now and then he flung an oath or so at the riders, but on the whole he was contented enough. It could not be gainsaid, Heppner was the man for him. Yes, the battery was all right, and he, Wegstetten, would see to it that it remained so. On every speech-making occasion when the chief held it up as an example, he had rejoiced to see the envious faces with which the commanders of the other batteries congratulated him.

Undoubtedly on this account he was given extra hard nuts to crack--such as this case of Frielinghausen.

Baron Walter von Frielinghausen was a second-year student, expelled from the gymnasium for repeated misdemeanours. His mother, a very poor widow, had not the means to continue his education, neither was the family ready to do so. They had therefore suggested that the young scapegrace should be brought under strict soldierly discipline, with the view to his eventually entering the Fire-Workers' Corps, and perhaps being made an officer therein.

And it was the sixth battery that was selected as the scene of action for this young man's talents! Wegstetten resolved to take all the nonsense out of him, and to destroy any delusions the youth might have as to his being in any way privileged.

But when Frielinghausen stood before him, an overgrown stripling, whose somewhat angular limbs looked still more immature in the coarse, ready-made uniform; and when he met a pair of anxious young eyes fixed on him, his tone softened perceptibly. There occurred to him, too, the consciousness of another bond: Frielinghausen, like himself, belonged to the old Thuringian nobility--possibly even to an older family than Wegstetten's. Although this youngster had undoubtedly caused his mother grave anxiety, yet he had not stolen copper-wire, nor taken part in any socialistic demonstration. Wegstetten at the moment did not know of what worse he could be accused. Naturally he would see to it that this sympathy with the fate of a common soldier should not be wasted on an unworthy object. Directly Frielinghausen did amiss, he would be down on him; just as with that other sprig of nobility, Count Egon Plettau, who had actually managed to serve nearly eight years and of that time to spend, first six months, then two and then five years confined in a fortress--always on account of insubordination. Now this incarnate disgrace to the German nobility was nearing his release, and was expected to be back again soon in the battery. Accident would determine whether he would finish his remaining two months before he was put on the Reserve, or would again get himself into prison.

Wegstetten had sufficient knowledge of men to recognise the difference between the two. Count Plettau was a mere hopeless idler and vagabond. Frielinghausen was at least inspired with a wish to pull himself together and become good for something.

Accordingly Wegstetten spoke to him like a father; told him in a few pointed words that he must try to be independent and steady, and must not expect to be treated exceptionally; enjoining him by zeal and good conduct to earn promotion as quickly as possible. But at the door he added softly, for he did not wish the non-commissioned officers to hear: "Be worthy of the name you bear! That alone should be sufficient inducement to make you try to get on."

Frielinghausen stood breathless for a moment after he had closed the door of the orderly-room. His heart was full of gratitude for the warm, humane words, which, after all the dry exhortations and admonitions, put new life into his heart. He earnestly resolved to repay his chief by his deeds, and to take all possible pains to please him.

The boy, than whom a few weeks ago none had been more light-hearted and careless, had been forced into serious reflections the night before. He had been a favourite with all his fellow-students, even outdoing the others in boyish exuberance, looking only at the sunny side of life and laughing at the censure of his teachers. Now suddenly he found himself banished to surroundings the misery of which made sweet by comparison even the bitterest hours of the past, which he could only remember with shame. He thought of the times when his mother had implored him with anxious, fervent words to be good. How ill he had succeeded as to that "goodness"! That dear tender mother had not grudged him the freedom of youth; often she had told him that she had no wish to see him a priggish, model boy, but had urged him not to lag behind the others, nor to fall short of his goal. This was chiefly because of the stingy, well-to-do relations, whose goodwill she had to secure in order that he might not have an utterly joyless youth. She had borne every burden, and was prematurely aged through her anxiety that he should attain the object which had shone so brightly in the future: namely, the family scholarship at the University of Jena, an endowment founded by a Frielinghausen of old for the benefit of his descendants.

Then came the catastrophe. Never in all his life would he forget the blank dismay of his mother when the head of the gymnasium interviewed her and told her of the inevitable expulsion. "Levity, carelessness, lack of industry, superficiality in almost every subject," thus ran the reports of his teachers.

Hereupon followed a period of dreary inaction, and again a feverish succession of petitions and persuasions, with the object of obtaining means for three years' private coaching, but the relations declined to open their purses. So they had fallen upon this last expedient for providing him with a career as a sort of mongrel, half officer, half non-com.

He envied the simple lads who were his comrades. They had, it is true, entered into new and strange conditions, but after all they remained in their natural environment. Many of them had never been so well off as in barracks. There was no bridge between the heights of culture to which he had aspired and the uncivilised depths in which his comrades dwelt so contentedly. Possibly they numbered among them fine and loveable natures: he was most attracted by the shabby clerk Klitzing, and by Vogt, the rough peasant-boy; but all these men, with their scanty words and awkward gestures, fought shy of him, fearing to be despised by an educated gentleman.

The prospect of intercourse with the non-commissioned officers, who, on promotion, would be his comrades, promised to be but little better than with the recruits. Among them he met, for the most part, with the same distrustful reticence that he had experienced among the men, though a few of them made up to him, thinking him the protÉgÉ of the captain, and this he resented. KÄppchen, in particular, a little man, with unpleasant cunning eyes, offered to his "future comrade" sundry little favours which, being battery-clerk, were in his power to bestow.

Look at it as he would, the life of both the present and the future had seemed to him scarcely worth living. Upon such reflections broke the captain's hearty, friendly words, bringing a glimmer of light into the terrible darkness. To merit the goodwill of this man, to show him that his sympathy had not been unworthily bestowed, was at least an object to live for. Frielinghausen set himself to attain it.

He paused near the door sunk in thought, he hardly knew for how long. He was startled by a hand on his shoulder and a voice saying: "Just let me pass, my son."

Frielinghausen stood aside at the bidding of an officer who, in full-dress helmet, with aigrette, epaulettes, bandolier, and scarf, strode into the orderly-room. He thought sadly how he had himself as a youngster dreamt of being an officer, until his mother had talked him over to the safer career of letters. Now he glanced at his own shabby uniform and compared it regretfully with that of the other.

In the orderly-room Wegstetten rose briskly to meet the new-comer, and held out his hand: "Delighted to have you in my battery, Reimers; you are heartily welcome!" cutting short the lieutenant's acknowledgments with: "Yes indeed, I am pleased to have a man with me who has some actual experience of soldiering; of possibly something even more severe than that of Madelung with the fourth battery in China."

Laughingly he held up a warning finger as he added:

"Even though it was entirely contrary to orders that you should have fought for the Boers. How did you get on in the fortress?"

Reimers answered, smiling:

"Pretty well, sir. I have scarcely ever been so well treated as during that arrest."

"Very likely. And his majesty did not let you languish there long?"

"No, indeed, sir."

Wegstetten glanced at his watch.

"Well, I'm sorry I can't stop any longer now, for I must go back to the riding-school again. So good-bye, my dear fellow. But let me say once more how glad I am to have a man who has really smelt powder. They are only to be found among colonels and generals as a rule nowadays."

As soon as the captain had gone, Reimers put his helmet on the table, and drew off his gloves.

He glanced round the orderly-room and nodded with satisfaction as he noted that everything was as it used to be. Then he held out his hand to the sergeant-major.

"Good-day, Schumann!" he said cheerily. "You're still here? How are you?"

"I'm well, sir, thank God. And, beg pardon, sir, but how are you?"

Reimers looked surprised. "I'm quite well, of course. Why should I not be?"

"Well, sir, you had sick-leave last year----?"

"Ah, yes, that's all gone, Schumann; all gone--not a trace of it left."

"I'm delighted to hear it, sir," said the sergeant-major; "and, if you will excuse me, sir," he went on somewhat hesitatingly, "I'm glad, very glad, you've come back to the sixth, especially after you've fought for the Boers. I should like to go out there myself, you know, sir."

"Oh, no, Schumann," said Reimers, "you must not think of that. I don't believe you would like it. There's another side to that affair. Stay contentedly here. This is the place for you. Besides, the poor devils have next to no artillery left."

Lieutenant Reimers took Schumann's familiarity in good part. He recognised that it was the strong love of justice which made him espouse the cause of the weak.

"No, Schumann," he went on: "that is no place for you. Wait; wait quietly here. Mark my words! There will be work enough! The lessons learnt over there in China, too, will have to be worked out here, and for that we shall want our best men. You will be wanted. If only we had more like you!"

Reimers emphasised the last words, and heartily wrung the sergeant-major's hand.

Then he put on his helmet again and strode out of the room; a man, indeed, over whom the soldier heart of Schumann rejoiced. One could have confidence in a man like that, with his quick penetrating glance and his easy, erect carriage. He was a handsome fellow too, fair-haired and of open countenance, only just a trifle thin from his campaigning experiences. Not one of those young puppies, like some of the officers, who caused the sergeant-major, notwithstanding his due respect for his superiors, to shake his head sadly at times.

Schumann seated himself at his table. But despite all his efforts he could not concentrate his attention on the recruiting papers. The words of Reimers haunted him: that he, Schumann, would be wanted. That was the second time the same thing had been said to him this very day. There must be something in it. He felt as though he had a bad conscience.

But all day long he was busy, and it was only towards evening, when work was nearly done, that he had time to think. He left what he could for the next day, and went into his own quarters at the end of the corridor. Here he would earnestly think it out, whether he would not remain for a few more years with the battery.

Two families were quartered at the end of the corridor, that of Sergeant-major Schumann and that of the deputy sergeant-major, Heppner; each had a bedroom, sitting-room, and kitchen, and they shared the entrance-hall between them.

As Schumann entered he could hear through the door the rough, blustering voice of Heppner.

That was the worst of these quarters; the thin walls and doors let the faintest sound through, to say nothing of rows and quarrelling. Unless one positively whispered, one's neighbours could overhear everything one said, even though they were not intentionally listening.

The Heppners were always noisy. It was the old story that caused the bickerings of the ill-mated pair: a sickly wife stricken with lung disease, drawing daily nearer to her grave, and a husband of rough exuberant physical strength.

Heppner had married his wife when she was already with child by him; and he never could imagine afterwards how he had come to tie himself to her. He had at no time really cared for the pale, thin woman; but she had a quiet way of managing, inch by inch, to attain the end she aimed at. She had caught him by appearing humble and patient; so humble and patient that he fancied she would make a submissive wife--a wife who would let him go his own way and would wink at his shortcomings. For he had never had the smallest intention of playing the faithful spouse.

Devil take it! Wasn't he a jolly young chap who looked thoroughly well in his smart uniform; tall, broad-shouldered, strong of limb, with full ruddy face and black moustache; a fellow all the women ran after; was such as he to belong solely to a broomstick like his wife? It would be a sin and a shame! Lucky for her that she was so tame and yielding!

But after marriage the pliant, patient woman altered suddenly. She turned out a regular scold; a perfect vixen, who was ever at his heels, distorting his most harmless acts, and starting a new jealousy every day. Once she went for him with finger-nails and scissors; but he had given her such a drubbing that she never attempted that game again. She used her tongue all the more; and when, driven to extremity, he sought to chastise her, she screamed so that the whole barracks ran to the rescue.

In the end Heppner completely gave up troubling about her. He went his own way, going out evening after evening, enjoying himself after his fashion. He hardly ever gave his wife money enough for housekeeping. When he did come home it was he who was the aggressor now, and the reproaches of his wife were indifferent to him.

Thus things went on for months. It was not exactly pleasant for Heppner; but one can get used to anything. He seemed only to grow handsomer and more robust, while his wife became daily thinner and uglier. Finally she did him an ill turn by falling sick. The doctor declared her case to be hopeless from the first, and gave her but a short time to live. But even the approach of death did not silence her evil tongue.

Once the wretched wife went to Wegstetten, the captain of their battery, in the vain hope that he might be able to help her.

"Just consider a little, Frau Heppner," he suggested, "whether you yourself may not be somewhat to blame. For it is impossible that a man so regular in his duties, who never has to be found fault with, can be as violent as you make out. You exaggerate a bit, my good woman."

After this she resigned herself angrily to her miserable fate.

Wegstetten was not wrong in his praise of Heppner. Outside his own quarters Heppner was a blameless non-commissioned officer; one who knew his duties as well as any, and was strictly obedient to rules and regulations. He handled the men smartly, his brutal, leonine voice being audible all over the parade-ground; yet he never permitted himself any undue licence of speech.

In general, if his men took the trouble to try, he got on well enough with them. It was a satisfaction to him to command a well-drilled body of men; if they behaved themselves he showed them thorough good-will. Only now and then he would fix on a man and worry him to the utmost permissible limit in a grim, cold way almost past endurance. It would always be one of the weaker sort; pale-faced lads he could never endure. And occasionally in other ways the rough animal nature of the man would show itself. If any one got hurt, Heppner was the first to run up--not to help, but to see the blood; he would watch it flow with unmistakable pleasure in his eager eyes.

His special forte was the breaking-in of chargers. In the riding-school he was thoroughly in his element; particularly under cover in the winter, when the horses steamed and the dim lamps glowed red through the dust. With the air of a conqueror he would mount some horse which had refused a jump. His hand could be as soft as satin or as hard as steel, and he would always try gentle means first. Throwing himself back on the hind-quarters, where the weight tells most, and thus driving the brute involuntarily forward till with his powerful legs he had forced it up to the obstacle, with one final squeeze he would get it over. If a refractory horse fell with him, he would be out of the saddle in a moment, and would wait, rein in hand, smiling quietly, until the animal was up again snorting. Then he would remount, and four or five times must the rebellious horse take the jump; then at last his rider would be satisfied.

Heppner's voice would sometimes sound quite good-humoured during riding instruction; he would then relax somewhat. He knew that his men would ride well when it came to the point; for that the sixth battery must have the best horsemen was an understood thing.

Thus it will be seen that the brutality Heppner displayed at home he could successfully repress when on duty. But the most remarkable thing about this man, who behaved like a brute to his wife, and had no affection for his comrades, was the metamorphosis he underwent if the horses were in question. Towards those beautiful animals he showed an almost womanly tenderness. They all knew him, and he loved them all, though naturally he had his favourites among them. There was Udo, a light-brown gelding, who could kneel down. And Zulu, almost black, would shake his head when asked if he were French, but nodded when one said, "A German artillery-man, aren't you?" Heppner would take them sugar every day, or other tit-bits, which he would divide among them with scrupulous fairness.

If by chance a horse fell ill, Heppner's devotion amounted to actual self-sacrifice, and he would anticipate the orders of the vet. with marvellous acuteness. Once only had he mal-treated a subordinate, a driver whom as a rule he particularly liked. He gave him a blow which caused the blood to spurt from both nose and mouth, because he had, when on stable duty, allowed DornrÖschen to get caught in her chain. DornrÖschen was Heppner's own riding-horse, and the very apple of his eye.

It was chiefly among these beautiful and intelligent animals that the more human element in Heppner's nature came out, and his love for them almost amounted to superstition. There must always be a goat about the stables, for it was an old belief that the strong smell of that animal was a preventive of disease, and the long-bearded Billy was the special protÉgÉ of the deputy sergeant-major. Now and then there were difficulties concerning him; as, for instance, when an unexpected attack in the rear knocked the major down in the dust before the whole corps. It was only by desperate entreaty that Heppner succeeded in saving the life of the bleating culprit, and then a curious chance led to his reinstatement. The very first night that the goat was turned out of the barracks, two of the horses began to cough the vet. hinted at bronchitis--four weeks only from the manoeuvres, and bronchitis!--Billy was at once restored to his place in the stables, and both horses ceased to cough.

The deputy sergeant-major would have found it difficult to answer had he been asked which he preferred: to play cards in a beerhouse with a buxom Bohemian waitress beside him, or to be in the neat stables amid the chain-rattling, snorting, stamping company of the horses. Both were to his taste; but perhaps on the whole he was really happiest walking up and down before the stalls, with the goat trotting after him, and the horses turning their heads to follow him with their sagacious eyes.

But as soon as the stable-door closed behind him the soft look would vanish; and as he opened the door of his own quarters an evil expression would overspread his face, as if he were ready at once to fall upon his defenceless wife.

Through grief and illness the unfortunate woman became at last incapable of attending to her domestic duties. She cast about for an assistant, and at last wrote to her sister Ida, who was in service in Lusatia. Ida willingly threw up her situation, came to her brother-in-law's dwelling, and immediately took over the management of the little household and of the invalid.

For a time it seemed as if the loathsome atmosphere of hate and squalor must disappear in presence of the tall fresh country girl; the deputy sergeant-major put a restraint upon himself before his sister-in-law, and the sickly wife found comfort and relief in talking to her. But eventually the presence of this third party transformed the house into a veritable hell.

The eyes of hatred are as keen as those of love. Julie Heppner soon discovered that her husband loved her sister with his usual coarse passion, as he had loved so many others before. She recognised the ardent fixed gaze that rested lustfully on the young girl, following her every movement. This, then, was to be the last, bitterest, deadliest drop in her cup; this betrayal, in her own home, under her very eyes.

The sick woman watched her sister's conduct in agonised suspense. At first Ida had been honestly indifferent to the behaviour of her brother-in-law; after a while, however, a faint embarrassed flush would sometimes overspread her pretty youthful countenance. From the fugitive glances which she now and then intercepted between the two, the invalid foresaw the most sinister results.

Heppner himself, not being particularly quick-witted, and being used only to coarse associates, did not quite know what to make of his sister-in-law. Of only one thing was he certain, this beautiful girl must be his. He was even prepared, if he could not otherwise succeed, to resort to violence.

One evening Heppner had been exercising WalkÜre, Wegstetten's charger, for an hour. Having seen her wisped down in the stable and covered with a horse cloth, he went towards the canteen for a drink, when he remembered that there was a bottle of beer in his own kitchen. He strolled slowly and somewhat stiffly towards his quarters.

Ida was washing in the kitchen. He said briefly, "Good evening," poured out the beer, and drank it in great gulps. Then he shook the last drops in the glass to make them froth up, silently watching his sister-in-law the while. She had round white arms; and as she bent over the tub, the outline of her hips showed broad and firm.

Through the open door came the shrill hoarse voice of his wife.

"Ida, who is there?"

"Who else should it be but Otto?" answered the girl.

Again the shrill voice called, yet more insistently, "Why does he not come in?"

Heppner finished his glass, put it down, and said: "Because I won't. Because I'm better off here. Because Ida's a pretty girl, and you're an old crone."

At this, as though in fun, he put his arm round the girl and pressed her to him.

Ida kept still for a moment. She shivered. Then she shook him off: "Let go, stupid! Go to your wife."

Heppner let her go. The single moment that she had permitted his embrace convinced him that here, too, he would conquer. How she had quivered in his arms! He understood such signs.

Meanwhile Sergeant Schumann, only separated from the Heppners by a partition wall, sat at the round table by the sofa with his wife.

Their room, with its antimacassars, its upholstered furniture, its flower-pots and canary-bird, its sewing-machine in the window, was more like an old maid's best parlour than a soldier's sitting-room. The small, neat-featured mistress herself, who was not very strong, and always, even in summer, wore a little shawl round her shoulders, suited her surroundings admirably.

She had a thousand small cares, and one great grief: that they were childless. But she never troubled her husband with her sorrow, taking care to bear it alone. He had bothers enough in the service; how often did she not hear his voice storming outside! He should have peace at home. One thing only she could not bear without complaining to him: the terrible quarrellings of their neighbours. She shuddered whenever she heard the strife begin afresh; and gradually out of this had grown an aversion from all this noisy life. She became a most zealous advocate of her husband's plans for retiring; and could scarcely find patience to await the moment when he would put off the richly-laced coat beside which she had formerly been so proud to walk. In her heart she had always been rather against the martial calling, and would take Schumann's sword from him as though it dripped blood.

All this would cease when he changed his military coat or the handsome dark uniform of a railway-official; all this discomfort would come to an end; above all, this noise: the shouts and curses with which recalcitrant recruits had to be knocked into shape, the trampling of nailed boots on the stone stairs, the bellowing of commands on the parade-ground, and--last, but not least--the hideous racket next door.

The sergeant-major had almost finished his time of service. A post awaited him as assistant at a small railway-station in the neighbourhood; and once when Schumann was away at the practice-camp, she had not been able to resist the temptation to see the place for herself. It was on a branch-line, which wound up among the hills. The station was a little distance from the village in a green plantation. She yearned after the peaceful spot.

And now Schumann had again begun to speak of remaining on in the army!

His wife let him talk, listening patiently. She sat quietly opposite to him, giving him his supper as usual, as busy and attentive as though he were only speaking on indifferent topics. But when he had finished she spoke out, saying that, as a rule, she was not the woman to meddle in her husband's affairs, but that this was a matter which concerned herself as well. His notion that to quit the service now would make him feel like a deserter and a scoundrel seemed to her utter unpractical nonsense. He would be sacrificing a couple of years to a mere fancy.

Finally she produced her trump-card. She knew that the rural quiet of the little station had wound itself round her husband's heart during the week of trial he had already passed there. So she confessed her own secret journey.

And she conquered.

Each could describe as well as the other the charms of the unassuming little retreat. What one omitted the other supplied. Thus the picture in the sergeant-major's mind was revived afresh, and in such vivid colours that it regained its old power over him, dissipating the cloud of self-reproachful doubt. He saw before him a calm bright future in the narrow valley between wooded heights, and it came over him suddenly that there in the stillness, where one could live in touch with nature, he would for the first time begin really to live.