Sergeant Schumann looked once more round the two rooms and the kitchen; no, nothing had been left behind. Only his overcoat and hat hung on the window-bolt, and his stick stood in the corner.

The civilian clothes did not please him at all. Every other minute his hand was up at his neck, feeling for a collar-band which seemed to be much too loose, but which, in reality, was not there at all.

His wife came in, busy as ever, in her hat and cloak, a little leather bag and an umbrella in her hand. She was to start at noon for the little mountain railway-station, where she would get the house ready for the furniture, which should arrive during the day. The sergeant-major, or rather the station-master's assistant, had some money matters to settle in the garrison town, and would not follow her until the next morning.

Frau Schumann was quite out of breath. Those stupid gunners had been so disagreeable when she wished to have her flowers put in the furniture van. She began excitedly: "Thank God, Schumann, the van is ready. Here are the keys. It's quite time for me to go to the station, isn't it?"

Schumann looked at his watch and growled: "Certainly, quite!"

"Then I'll be off," said the little woman.

But she remained standing in the middle of the room, seemingly unable to tear herself away.

"Dear, dear!" she said, "for years I have wished to leave this place, and now that we are really going I feel quite sad; don't you, Schumann?"

The sergeant-major muttered something unintelligible. If it had depended on him the house would not now have been empty and the furniture-van before the door. It was his wife who had worried him into it, and yet now probably she would begin to snivel.

Indeed, she had just taken her handkerchief out of her pocket and raised it to her eyes, when suddenly her face changed: "Good gracious! our bean-poles are still in the garden! I'm not going to leave them behind. Fancy it's only occurring to me now!"

She was hurrying out. But the sergeant-major got in the way and held up his watch in her face.

"Look here!" he said. "If you don't stir your stumps you'll miss your train."

She was alarmed: "Good heavens, yes, of course! I'm going. Good bye, Schumann! Look after everything, and--and--good bye."

Standing on tiptoe she reached up for a kiss from her husband and was quickly out of the door.

Schumann drew a long breath. She was his dear wife, but now that he had to say farewell to the battery he preferred to be alone, without her.

He stood still in the doorway.

A driver had just brought two horses out of the stable and was harnessing them to the furniture van.

Schumann had not taken much to do with the horses of late years; he knew that they were thoroughly well cared for under Heppner's superintendence, and the deputy sergeant-major was rather apt to resent any interference with his department. But he would have failed in his duty if he had not, in spite of this, kept himself informed of all that concerned the horses; if, in fact, he had not been individually acquainted with each one of them.

Sergeant Schumann went down the steps. He must begin his leave-taking--so he would first say good-bye to the horses.

Slowly he passed between the stalls. At that moment the strong smell of the stable seemed to him more delicious than the most fragrant scent, more delicious than the resinous forest breeze which blew through the valley where the little station of the mountain railway lay surrounded by pine woods.

There stood the beautiful creatures side by side in splendid condition and with coats like satin. Nearly all of them were dark bay, and according to temperament they stood stolidly staring before them, or pawed impatiently at the straw, or playfully bit and teased each other. Only four stalls were empty. "Sybille" and "Achat" were drawing his belongings to the station. Another pair had been borrowed by Major Schrader, who had been invited to a hunting party on a neighbouring estate.

Last he came to his own riding-horse in the loose box, a pretty creature with four white fetlocks, who was rather nervous, and unusually tender-mouthed. Baldwin shrank from the man in the dark brown suit, and it was only when the sergeant-major spoke that the animal recognised him. Even then he was shy, and sugar and bread failed to re assure him. Schumann called him by his pet name, rubbing his cheek against the velvet nostrils, and then only did the horse become quiet. The sergeant-major could have shed tears. But he wanted to make an end of it, and clear out from these barracks, where he no longer had his place. Lingeringly he quitted the stable, and going out on to the parade-ground, stood once more before the battery's memorial tablet. The sixth was one of the oldest batteries; there were therefore a goodly number of skirmishes and battles engraved upon the tablet. Sedan was the most disastrous and at the same time the most glorious day--the day on which the battery had fired nearly eight hundred shots, so that by evening the gunners had become so deaf that they could hardly understand the orders which were shrieked into their ears.

Oh yes, it had been an honour to belong to the battery, and it was only right that in times of peace also the sixth should always have been an example for others.

"To commemorate the fallen; to inspire the living!" he read softly.

He nodded in earnest assent; then turned round suddenly and re entered his house.

He put on his overcoat hastily, and seized his hat and stick. Then he locked up, and knocked at the deputy sergeant-major's door, in order to give up the keys.

Frau Heppner was alone.

"Are you just going, Herr Schumann?" she asked softly.

The sergeant-major nodded, and said: "I am putting the keys here, in front of the looking-glass."

Then he went up to the sofa on which the invalid was lying and took her hand. "Good-bye, Frau Heppner."

"Good-bye," answered the woman; and whispering softly she added: "And as we shall not meet again, I must thank both you and your wife."

"But what for?"

The invalid was silent for a moment, then she replied: "Well, when one's own house has always been a perfect hell, one learns to appreciate the peace and quiet of others. At least, it helps one to see there is something better than one's own lot."

The sergeant was silent. What could he say to the unhappy woman?

"So, good-bye, Herr Schumann!" she went on. "I sincerely wish you well!"

Schumann breathed more freely as the door closed behind him. He felt deeply for the poor woman, and was relieved to have got over the parting from her.

With the giving up of the key the last cord was loosened which had bound him to the battery and to the military life as a whole. Everything else had already been done.

The evening before there had been a small fÊte, to which the captain and the two subalterns had invited him and all the non-commissioned officers of the battery. Then in the morning, in the presence of the officers, including the colonel, and before all the men of the regiment, the good-service cross, which the king had granted him, had been handed him by the commanding officer; he had also received permission to wear his old uniform at any patriotic festivities. The colonel had spoken of him warmly as a pattern soldier, and had concluded with a cheer for the emperor and the king. Then the sergeant-major had requested that he, on his side, might be allowed to say a few words; and with a voice which failed many times he led a cheer for the beloved regiment, and especially for the splendid sixth battery. Afterwards handsome presents were given him: from Wegstetten and the two lieutenants a beautiful gold watch; from Major Schrader a heavy gold chain for it; from the non-commissioned officers an album with views of the town and the barracks, and with photographic groups of officers, non-commissioned officers, men, and horses. Finally, the commanding officer presented to him that service sabre which he had worn for ten long years, to be now his own private property.

He had only been able to thank them by a silent grasp of the hand, for fear that if he spoke he would begin to cry like a girl. Afterwards he had also said farewell to all the men. So now he was ready and could go.

It was about half an hour before the time for the afternoon drill. As Schumann entered the parade-ground he heard a voice shout from the steps: "The sergeant-major is going!" And in a moment all came running towards him, the drivers and gunners, old stagers and raw recruits, the entire battery crowding round to shake hands with him once more.

Again the sergeant-major had to clench his teeth; he passed silently along, shaking the hands that were stretched out to him.

Suddenly he stopped in astonishment, thinking he must be mistaken. But no, Wolf was there too--Wolf, the social-democrat, whose whole existence as a soldier was a cynical mask, the revolutionist who was only waiting for the moment when, free from the green uniform, he might preach his faith again! And he, Schumann, had never been at any pains to conceal what he thought of such disgraceful opinions.

Wolf had not exactly run up, but had come with the rake over his shoulder with which he had been raking the riding-ground, and was at any rate associating himself with the others.

"What, you too, Wolf?" Schumann involuntarily exclaimed.

"Yes, sir," answered the soldier. "You never were hard on any-one. You were always just."

Schumann was just a little bit shamefaced at this obviously sincere praise. Generally speaking, he had honestly tried to deserve it; but with regard to this social-democrat, he knew quite well he had many times been lacking in justice. He remembered how often, when Wolf's turn came, he had ordered him to perform some specially unpleasant work.

Embarrassed and hesitating, he replied: "Well, well, and you have always been a good soldier yourself, at any rate in externals. Only that you--well, there was no getting at you there!"

It was a good thing that after Wolf others came up to grasp his hand in farewell; or else, notwithstanding order, watch, and sabre, he would have left the barracks with a bad conscience.

The last, who kept on moving further down in order to be the very last to say good bye, was Niederlein, a smart little gunner, who had polished his accoutrements for him during the last year.

The sergeant-major pressed his hand with special heartiness, and breathed freely: Thank God, Niederlein made up for Wolf! Once when ill, and left alone in the dormitory, Niederlein had broken open a locker and appropriated a piece of sausage therefrom. Schumann had caught him red-handed. Thieving from a comrade was a serious offence, entailing severe punishment and public disgrace; but Schumann knew Niederlein was only thoughtless and greedy, and it had been more a stupid prank than a crime, for the money which lay near the sausage was untouched. So he had held the boy across the table and given him five-and-twenty strokes with his leather belt. He was not quite clear in his mind whether this had been entirely in order--it might have been technically an assault; at any rate it turned out right. Niederlein was now about the best soldier in the whole battery, and would have, gone through fire and water for the sergeant-major.

The lad watched awhile how Schumann went slowly out through the back gateway and disappeared into the little wood. Then he hurried off to his quarters, for the battery was collecting for foot-drill.

Schumann had purposely chosen to go to the town by the lonely way through the wood, because if he had gone by the high road he would have met the battery officers again. That would have meant another delay; and then besides he felt he belonged far more to the men than to the officers, despite his double stripes.

He paused on the hill and gazed at the well-known landscape beneath him, where in the foreground lay the great drill-ground at his feet.

With his sharp eyes he could even recognise individual men. The fourth battery had just brought its six guns up to the gate; the fifth had not stirred as yet--Captain Mohr was not fond of duty so soon after dinner; and now his own battery, the sixth, arrived on the ground to perform foot-drill. The ornaments on the helmets shimmered in the sun, and he almost fancied he could hear the even tread. Wegstetten and the two lieutenants were behind.

The drill began, and the breaking up into files, the deployment, and finally the parade-march, first in file and then in battery column--all went splendidly. It was a joy to look down upon the smart, well-ordered straight lines as they moved. Instead of himself, Heppner marched in the sergeant-major's place, and Keyser, as the senior non-commissioned officer present, led the file of drivers instead of the deputy sergeant-major.

All was thoroughly well done, there was not a hitch anywhere.

And he, Schumann, had believed that he was indispensable, he had thought things could not go on without him!

At supper Julie Heppner said to her husband: "Otto, the money you give us for housekeeping isn't enough. Ida couldn't pay the milkman to-day."

"No affair of mine," replied the deputy sergeant-major, with his mouth full. "You must manage things better."

When he had finished eating he put his coat on, buckled on his sabre and put on his forage cap.

His wife watched him from the sofa with angry eyes as he brushed his heavy beard and put on his gloves.

Heppner looked her straight in the face, laughed scornfully and said: "Yes, you are thinking again: 'Now he is going to the public-house and will spend all the bit of money!' Well, as it happens, it's not so this time. But you had better believe it all the same, and make yourself really angry."

This perpetual lack of money was, however, no joke to the sister-in-law either, as she was always having to put off and conciliate the creditors, and she joined in angrily: "It's the truth! You squander the money and we have to manage as best we can."

Heppner went round behind her and mockingly retorted: "So you're beginning to scold like your dear sister? It seems to be catching. But I'll tell you how it is: there was a good lot of the farewell beer left over yesterday, and I saved it up for myself. Now, who's right?"

He tapped his sister-in-law's round shoulder playfully, and added: "Who knows? Perhaps to-morrow I may give you quite a lot of money."

With that he left the house.

He was in a good temper. It had long been a grievance to him that Schumann--grumbling old plodder!--instead of packing up his few sticks and being drafted into the civil service, should have remained so long stuck fast to the battery, thus preventing his own promotion. Now at last the old man had disappeared, and he was certain of becoming sergeant-major.

To-day was a lucky day for him, he felt sure; and this must be taken advantage of: a little game must be arranged for the evening.

Therefore, he had taken care only to invite men on whom he could rely to this second instalment of the farewell drinking party: the sergeant-major of the fifth battery, who imitated his chief in drinking, and Trumpeter Henke of his own, the sixth battery, two seasoned gamblers. The two other members of the party were to be the landlord of the White Horse, and the fat baker, KÜhn, who held the contract for the white bread supplied to the regiment. To the baker in particular he had allotted the rÔle of loser, as he had the most money.

At the gate it suddenly occurred to Heppner that it would be much pleasanter to walk the half-mile to the town in company, and he decided to fetch the trumpeter.

Sergeant Henke was a lively young fellow, with a fresh, rosy face, a flowing black beard and curly hair, rather beyond the regulation length. He was of a handsome soldierly appearance, and contrasted well with his wife, Lisbeth, a beautiful blonde, who with her slender figure always looked like a young girl.

This fair woman was blindly in love with her husband. She almost worshipped him, but he did not trouble himself much about her. He regarded himself as a great artist, because in the choir concerts he played the cornet solos, and always received much applause from the female part of the audience, and he considered that his marriage alone had prevented him from becoming a "celebrity." Once he had received a passionate love letter, signed by "a lady of high degree, who deplored with tears of blood" the dividing difference of rank between them. It was transparently the coarse work of a practical joker; but Henke in his conceit believed in the high-born heiress, and this dream quite turned his head. He ever afterwards posed as a fine gentleman, ogled all the elegant women of the town, and had hardly a glance left for his wife. She worked and pinched for him in order that he might be able to enjoy his aristocratic tastes, and thought herself happy because he bore with her. And he was always urging her to work and earn money, as he longed to become rich and be the equal of really fashionable people.

Gambling was to help him to this; besides, in itself it gave him intense pleasure.

He was ready dressed to go out, and was only lingering before the looking-glass, when he heard outside the signal-whistle with which Heppner, his boon-companion, was accustomed to call him. He soon joined the deputy sergeant-major in the street, and after a brief greeting the two walked rapidly towards the town.

A few steps from the White Horse the trumpeter suddenly stopped, felt in his pocket, and exclaimed, "Damnation! I've left my money behind at home!"

"Never mind!" said Heppner, in his genial mood. "You shall eat and drink free to-day, and I'll lend you a thaler into the bargain. There, catch hold!"

He gave him the piece of money before they reached the door, and the trumpeter rejoiced: borrowed money brought luck.

The landlord of the Horse had laid the table neatly in the little parlour. The leavings of the previous evening had been freshly dished up, and the barrel, which must still contain nearly forty litres of beer, had been cooled with ice.

But only one of the five banqueters was in the vein--Blechschmidt, sergeant-major of the fifth battery. He was still eating and drinking when the four others were already sitting at the half-cleared table playing cards.

"Something moderate to begin with!" the master baker KÜhn had suggested; so each one put down three marks.

It was a long time before the last fifty-pfennig piece was played out of the pool; but Heppner triumphed. He had been right in his premonition; when he counted his money he had won nearly two marks.

After this exertion the players took a little refreshment, and while eating talked the game over.

Heppner swallowed his bread and meat eagerly, and the last plate had hardly been cleared before he began, his eyes twinkling craftily, "And what next, gentlemen?"

The master baker laughed pleasantly and replied, "Well, as we've been lying low, we may afford to let ourselves go a bit now."

Thereupon the landlord bolted the door and saw that the shutters were firmly closed. They drew closer together, and even Blechschmidt came nearer.

The players bent over the table, their eyes followed the dealing of the cards with eagerness, their faces glowed. They lighted their fresh cigars on the stumps of the old ones, and when their throats became parched from excitement, they gulped down rapid draughts of the beer, which was gradually becoming flat and muddy as it flowed from the tap into the glasses.

They had lost all thought of time.

Suddenly Blechschmidt, the tireless toper, grumbled, "No, I shan't play with you any more. Beer's best."

The landlord looked at the clock. "It is nearly five," he said.

None of them could believe it; they thought they had not been playing above an hour at most.

But late or early they must finish the game, and they all heaved deep breaths as the last round ended. While playing they had been quite unconscious of the terrible fatigue, which, now that they had stopped, utterly overpowered them.

Now they had to calculate the gains and losses of the night. The trumpeter got through quickest. He tossed Heppner the borrowed thaler, and laughed contentedly to himself. He had every reason to be cheerful, he, who had not brought a single red pfennig with him, and who now had more than a hundred marks--chiefly in silver, but with a few gold pieces also--clinking in his pocket!

The other four had all lost. The deputy sergeant-major was quite thirty marks poorer. He glanced darkly at the small sum which still lay before him. How stupid he had been! He had thrown away his luck with the thaler which he had lent Henke, that was quite certain. Now, instead of himself, this fop had hauled in the fat baker's money. That was the reward of his good nature!

Then suddenly Henke had an idea.

"Gentlemen!" he began, "I see that I have had tremendous luck. I must really give some of it away."

He dug the sleepy landlord in the ribs, and shouted in his ear, "Now then, Anton! I want two bottles of champagne."

The landlord was quite alert in a moment. He stood to win by this sort of play.

"Bring the most expensive!" trumpeted the trumpeter. "Eleven marks the bottle, Henke!"

"No matter! What our officers can do I can do also. Bring it along!"

Mine host hurried down into his cellar and fetched two bottles of Pommery from the furthermost corner, a good dry brand with which horse-dealers sometimes christened a concluded bargain.

There was no more ice to be had; so he opened the bottle as it came out of the cellar. The cork sprang to the ceiling with a loud pop, and the wine poured from the neck like a fountain.

The two sergeants had given the word of command, "Fire!" as the cork flew out, and the trumpeter had blown a fanfare. All five buried their noses in their glasses and let them be tickled by the rising bubbles. Then they drank off the wine, which was far too warm, and could not praise it enough.

The trumpeter, who was always imitating the officers, considered himself a judge of wine. He smelt the champagne, let it lie on his tongue, while at the same time his face took on an enraptured expression, and he shouted enthusiastically, "Gentlemen, gentlemen! in this bouquet one recognises the true French brand. It is utterly different from German champagne!"

The others imitated his action and were in complete agreement with him.

Only KÜhn remarked discontentedly, "The hog-wash tastes like bitter almonds!"

At which the landlord took offence. "Don't you know then, baker," he snarled, "that that is just the way to know genuine French champagne?"

And he looked lovingly at the two corks which he had placed carefully in a corner.

When Captain von Wegstetten entered the orderly-room on the morning of April 1st, he at once said to the deputy sergeant-major, "What is the matter with you? You look quite green."

Heppner answered, "Excuse me, sir, my wife has had a very bad night."

"Indeed!" drawled Wegstetten. "I am sorry to hear it."

But to himself he thought: "If that is at all true, the man must have been consoling himself with whisky; one can smell it five paces away from him."

However, the captain offered to let him dispense with riding; but Heppner objected, and begged to be allowed to take part in the drill. He felt that would help him to shake off his unpleasant sensations; an hour's ride and he would be fresh again. A fine thing if a night's dissipation could really upset a man like himself!

His commanding officer was pleased at such enthusiasm; and as during the drill the deputy sergeant-major managed his horse--the most troublesome of all the remounts--exceedingly well, he remarked to him, "Heppner, I think I shall be able to bring you some good news at noon."

Afterwards it occurred to him that he had intended to raise objections to the colonel with regard to Heppner's elevation to the rank of sergeant-major, but now that he had committed himself to the man this was no longer possible.

He did just mention his doubts in the colloquy with Falkenhein, but he made no impression, and in the end the colonel himself covered the retreat.

"What do you expect, my dear Wegstetten?" he said. "I ask you, just take all your non-commissioned officers. Who is there you cannot accuse of gambling? It is a fatal characteristic of these mongrels that they will copy the officers, and unfortunately only in what is stupid or bad. The fine gentlemen all play, drink, fool with women, gamble; it's only a question of the one a little more, the other a little less."

Wegstetten objected modestly. "Pardon me, sir, not all. My old sergeant-major----"

He got no further. Falkenhein interrupted quickly: "You mean Schumann? Yes; there you are quite correct. But then he was the last of another generation, one of the old type--steady, quiet, discreet, honest, and trustworthy to the last fibre. But they are dying out, my dear Wegstetten. Such perfect specimens of non-commissioned officers, that used to be the rule, are now more and more the exception. I ask you for the truth: since you entered the army, have our non-coms. become better, or--well, less good? What do you say?"

"Less good, sir, unfortunately," replied the captain.

"Yes, unfortunately. Exactly my opinion."

The colonel rummaged among the papers lying on his desk, and selected two.

"Now, my dear Wegstetten," he said, "here are the appointments. I can't settle such details. That is not my business. I put it to you, therefore; will you try with Heppner?"

"As you wish, sir."

"Good; I think you are right."

Falkenhein signed the document and gave it to the captain.

"There! now he is sergeant-major!" he said, and continued: "What I most regret is, that you should partially lose him in the active work. That was his real field. But a younger man cannot be promoted over his head."

He took the second document and handed it to Wegstetten. "And here, at the same time, is the other promotion. I have followed your advice. Sergeant Heimert is to-day appointed deputy sergeant-major and relieved of his present duty. He will report himself to you to-morrow.

"Thank you, sir," replied the captain.

Wegstetten stuck the documents into his sleeve and took leave. The colonel accompanied him to the door and shook hands with him very cordially.

The captain reflected, however, as he went down the steps, that every one must have at least one fault. He, like the whole contingent, was of opinion that Falkenhein was one of the finest officers in the army, certain to become a major-general, if not a full general. And with an artilleryman this was of double significance. But why, because a man had had the good fortune to work under the sainted Moltke on the general staff, he should, therefore, always describe anything that had occurred since that time as "less good,"--that he could never understand.

That evening after roll-call Heppner read out his own promotion to the rank of sergeant-major, and that of Sergeant Heimert to the post of deputy sergeant-major.

Everybody was surprised. Heimert? Who was Heimert? No one could say.

Ah! It went on: "Deputy sergeant-major Heimert will therefore be relieved from his management of the forage department of the infantry and artillery ammunition columns and will return to his battery."

So it really was that fellow with the gigantic nose, who was always slouching about the coach-houses and baggage sheds!

Heppner returned to the orderly-room and sat down at his table, on which lay a mass of unfinished writing. Now the wakeful night was making itself felt. The sergeant yawned and took up his work unwillingly. Evidently the post of sergeant-major had some drawbacks! To be kept shut up in this room! It was not pleasant to retire from drill, riding remounts, giving riding-lessons, and leading a line in driving exercises--all that had been so much after his own heart. And this eternal scribbling would be altogether against the grain.

If only he had a clever clerk, like Blechschmidt of the fifth battery, who did not over-exert himself! But KÄppchen was a lazy fellow; and yet on KÄppchen he must rely, asking his advice about all kinds of things, because he himself did not know the routine yet.

It was very late before he locked his desk and went home.

His sister-in-law greeted him with news which did not improve his temper. "The tailor has been here," she said, "and wanted the money for your uniform, which you have owed for a month. He will come again to-morrow."

Heppner grumbled: "The fellow must wait!" He had no more money. It had nearly all vanished yesterday, and to-day he had been obliged to give the greater part of what remained to the women for housekeeping.

With a surly face he sat down to his supper.

"Have you been made sergeant-major?" his wife asked.

He saw his sister-in-law's eyes too fixed on him questioningly. He muttered, "Yes," to her, and then turned roughly on his wife: "What business is it of yours?"

She lay back, and answered gently: "I am so glad." "Really?" he sneered. He cast a sharp glance at her and snarled between his teeth: "Don't gush!"

Then he pushed his plate away, tossed off two glasses of beer, and lay down to rest in the bedroom.

The two sisters remained together, the invalid stretched on the sofa, the other sewing near the lamp. They heard Heppner snoring.

His wife's face was in shadow, but her eyes blazed at her sister and rested with an uncanny expression of hatred on the strong, well-developed beauty of the young girl.

There was a knock at the door. The battery tailor had brought the sergeant-major's tunic, on the sleeve of which he had stitched the double stripes. Ida took it from him and hung it up silently.

The invalid watched her indifferently. A short time before she had been mildly excited with joy at her husband's promotion; he had quite spoilt this feeling for her. Now she was callous to everything.

Suddenly she pressed her lips together and clenched her hands feverishly.

Had not her sister just handled his tunic lingeringly with a kind of furtive tenderness?

Had the scandal already gone so far?

Julie Heppner believed that she would die betrayed and forsaken by all; but during her last days she gained a sympathetic friend in the newly appointed deputy sergeant-major Heimert.

Heimert had taken possession of the Schumanns' empty house. True that at the time he was still single; but as his marriage was to take place in a few weeks, the captain had at once allotted married quarters to him. Now the deputy sergeant-major was furnishing the rooms and decking the bare walls and windows with touching care. He would arrange and rearrange the furniture, and would drape a curtain a thousand different ways, and yet nothing was ever beautiful enough for him.

On holidays he was seldom able to visit his sweetheart, Albina Worzuba. At other times he devoted every spare hour to her; but she was the barmaid of a small tavern in the town, and had no time to spare for him on holidays. Besides, Heimert did not like watching how the guests would go up to the counter for glasses of beer, and joke with Albina, or even dare to pinch her cheeks. He had on several occasions made scenes about this till the landlord had almost forbidden him the place. Albina herself, too, advised him to come as seldom as possible. She considered that as long as she was a barmaid she must be friendly, and not too sensitive to the chaff of the guests; and if it pained him to see this, it was better that he should remain away. And with an ardent glance she added that when she was his wife he would have her all to himself. Heimert had constrained himself to agree to this.

On one of these Sundays it befell that Heimert was startled from his carpentering by the sound of a groan. He went outside and listened; the moaning sounds came from Heppner's quarters. He burst the door open and entered. The sick woman had been left alone. Her sister had gone for a walk, and the sergeant-major was doubtless at a public-house. Such neglect of her had often occurred before; but this time she had suddenly been seized by an attack of pain so severe that she thought she was dying.

To die alone! With no one even to hold her hand; without a ray of light from a living eye to brighten the dark porch of death!

Between the attacks of pain she called feverishly and breathlessly for her husband: "Otto! Otto! Otto!!"

Heimert ran to her anxiously. He gave her his hand, which she seized and held convulsively, spoke to her soothingly, and wiped the drops of sweat from her brow with his handkerchief.

He quietly gave her time to recover from her exhaustion, then said to her gently: "Frau Heppner, would you like me to send to find your own people?"

She shook her head energetically: "No, no!" and whispered wearily: "But if you would only stay just a little while, Herr Heimert!"

The sergeant nodded, and remained sitting silently beside her.

It was some time before Julie Heppner had the strength to explain to him what had happened to her. While so doing she looked at him more attentively, and was almost frightened by his ugliness. The coarse face with the outstanding ears was made half grotesque, half repellent, by an enormous nose, which was always red. What did it matter that two beautiful, kindly child-like eyes shone from this countenance? Would any one trouble to look for them in the midst of such hideousness?

The invalid remembered she had heard that Heimert was going to be married. In the light of her own unhappiness she thought to herself that this marriage could only turn out well if the man had chosen a woman as ugly as himself, so that in their common misfortune the pair could comfort each other.

As she gradually became able to talk to him she inquired about his bride, and the enamoured swain raved to her unceasingly of Albina's beauty and charm.

Heimert now appeared to her as a fellow-sufferer; only she was about to lay down the heavy burden, and he was but just going to take the load upon his back.

The two talked together as if they had known each other for years; they were nearly always of the same opinion. Finally, the invalid invited the deputy sergeant-major to come over often when she was alone; she would always give him a sign, and he could bring his carpenter's bench with him, the hammering would not disturb her in the least.

After this, Heimert always appeared directly Julie Heppner called him. He gained distraction from his jealous fits in this way, and he thought the sergeant-major's wife a really good woman, who had been unfortunate enough to marry the wrong man, when with another she would perhaps have been happy. The brutality with which Heppner treated the dying woman was revolting to him, and his sympathy with the injured wife gradually inspired him with a positive hatred for the sergeant-major.

The sergeant-major laughed at Heimert. "The Prince with the Nose" he called him, and sneered at his wife about this "lover."

"You two would have suited each other well!" he jeered. "You would have nothing to reproach each other with in the way of beauty!"

One day in passing he looked into the neighbouring quarters, and found the deputy sergeant-major gazing at a cabinet photograph of his betrothed. Heimert, startled, tried quickly to hide the portrait; but Heppner begged to see it.

He had expected to see a girl,--well, something like his wife, or perhaps uglier, for surely it would be impossible for any one else to fall in love with Heimert; but as he took the picture in his hand an involuntary expression of surprise escaped him: "By Jove! Isn't she beautiful!"

From that moment he was always asking Heimert to take him with him to see his sweetheart.

"Why?" Heimert asked suspiciously. "Do you want to cut me out with her?"

Heppner laughed at him. "The devil!" he said. "I have two women in the house myself, and that's more than enough. Surely one may make the acquaintance of a comrade's sweetheart?"

"And," he added craftily, "have you so little confidence in her, then?"

Heimert burst out: "Oh, that's not the reason!"

"Well then," said the other, "you know you won't be able to lock her up and hide her when she is your wife. Where's the harm in my just saying good-day to her?"

The deputy sergeant-major was forced to agree that there was really nothing against it. Moreover he was rather proud of having won such a beautiful girl; he enjoyed seeing the sergeant-major's envious eyes; and finally he said he would take him to Grundmann's the following Monday. Grundmann was the name of the landlord of the tavern in which Albina was barmaid; and as on Monday business there was at its slackest, they might hope to exchange a few quiet words with the girl.

On the Monday evening appointed he met Heppner on the parade-ground.

Heimert had made himself as smart as possible. He had put on his new extra uniform, which he had meant to keep for his wedding, and had forced his big hands into shiny white kid gloves. The collar of his tunic was very high, and so tight that he could hardly turn his head. Heppner, on the other hand, had only put on his best undress uniform. He was in a very good temper and very talkative, whereas Heimert walked beside him depressed and silent.

They arrived at Grundmann's very opportunely. They were the only guests, and the landlord had no objection to Albina's sitting at their table with them.

Heppner chose a place from which he could gaze undisturbed at the girl's profile. She pleased him. She was just to his taste, this full-bosomed girl with salient hips and rounded arms. In his opinion her face was more than pretty; her eager, passionate eyes, and her mouth with the full, rather pouting lips, on which one longed to plant a big kiss, seemed to him quite beautiful. She wore her dark hair, which was as coarse as a horse's tail, dressed in a new-fashioned way which gave her a certain "individuality"; and, above all, she had some scent about her of a kind that was only used by the most distinguished ladies.

Heppner was annoyed that she noticed him so little. She was quite taken up with her betrothed, who was telling her of the progress made in the preparation of the house, and she only gave Heppner a glance at rare intervals.

At first she did not talk much; but when, in order to say something, he asked her where her home was, she immediately began to relate her whole history.

She came from Prague, and was the daughter of a shoe-maker--or, rather, of a boot and shoe manufacturer--and, moreover, not of an ordinary boot and shoe manufacturer, but of a Court boot and shoe manufacturer by Royal and Imperial appointment, who did not work for just any one, but only for the Archdukes and for the high Bohemian nobility. And she, Albina, had always to write down the figures when her father was taking measures, and so it had come about that a Count Colloredo had fallen in love with her. He had wished to educate and marry her; but she had at last refused because the noble relations of her beloved had threatened to disinherit him if he married the "shoemaker's daughter." She could never have endured causing him to discard his beautiful Thurn and Taxis dragoon's uniform.

Now came a pause in Albina's narrative, which however did not last long. Next, she had fled from her father's house. Why? She kept that a secret. And finally, after many vicissitudes she had found a refuge here, where she was safe from her father. For he had wished later to marry her to a master chimney-sweep, and although the latter was a millionaire she would have none of him.

In reality she was the child of a miserably poor cobbler; and after a stormy youth she had brought her somewhat damaged little ship of life to anchor in the small garrison town at the bar of Grundmann's alehouse.

Heimert waited impatiently for the conclusion of her romance, which he had heard many times before. But if Albina had a chance of telling the story of her life, she became like a freshly wound-up clock, which ticks on inexorably until it runs down.

She simply left unanswered the questions her lover interposed now and then; and when he interrupted her to say that Count Colloredo had been in the Palatine hussars, and not in the Thurn and Taxis dragoons, she said crossly that he had better pay more attention the next time she told him anything. Heppner, on the contrary, who appeared to listen with interest, rose in her favour, and in answer to his questions she launched still further into detail.

And now she looked at him more closely, and took his measure with those bright eyes of hers. But having brought her story up to the present date, she turned once more to Heimert, regarded him tenderly, and said, "Shall I not be happy with him, after having had such hard times in the past?"

A few newly-arrived guests now called her to her duties at the bar, and the two non-commissioned officers remained behind alone at the table. Heimert felt the sergeant-major looking at him, as he thought, with a sneering, incredulous sort of expression. He was embarrassed, and began describing figures on the table with a little beer that had been spilt.

"Well, well," he began at last, "women are always like that. She draws the long bow, of course--as to her origin and so forth."

"Yes," answered Heppner; "girls love doing that."

"But," Heimert continued, "there is some truth in it. Her father is a shoemaker--was, at least, for he is dead now--even if he wasn't a Court shoemaker. And he must have been wealthy. He only left her what he was obliged to, and yet she receives fifty crowns interest monthly. I know that for certain."

"By Jove! that is over forty marks. You certainly are a lucky dog! Why, she's almost rich."

"Well, not quite that. But it is very pleasant, naturally. However, I didn't choose her for that reason. I first heard of it quite indirectly, long after I had proposed."

Heppner was almost overcome with envy as he saw sitting opposite to him this picture of hideousness, this perfect monster, who had succeeded--how, Heaven alone knew!--in winning a beautiful and also a rich woman. For he was obliged to believe that about her income. It was plain that Heimert was not lying.

As a matter of fact the barmaid did receive fifty crowns every month. The money, however, did not come as interest on capital inherited from her father, but was an annuity which a former lover had settled on her: a good-natured, fat tallow-chandler, who had been with great regret obliged to give the youthful Albina Worzuba the go-by, as his wife had caught him tripping. He had sweetened the farewell for Albina with this annuity.

Albina was careful not to reveal this to her future husband. Why should she? She argued that ignorance was bliss, and beyond everything she was weary of the unsettled life she had been leading, now as waitress, now as barmaid, or as something quite different, and she wanted to find rest in an honest marriage. She could attract most men as lovers, but as a husband she could only hope for one who was as simple and as much in love as Heimert. So she had fastened upon him, and she had no intention of endangering her plans by any unpleasant communications. Prague was a long way off; and, moreover, many years had passed since those days, and the money itself could tell no tales as to its source.

Apparently the barmaid would have no more free moments. So at last the two non-commissioned officers rose, paid their bill, and then went up to the bar to say good-night to her.

Now it was that Albina first noticed the full difference between her future husband and the sergeant-major. As the men stood side by side, Heppner was more than a head taller than Heimert. He was strongly built, and, despite a certain fulness, he was well-proportioned; strength, however, untrammelled, powerful, raw strength was his salient characteristic. Heimert's frame, too broad and too short, and crowned by its mask of a comic clown, looked almost deformed by the side of the other.

The girl's eyes rested with unfeigned admiration on Heppner's appearance; and when she finally turned towards her lover, a scornful smile played about her coarse mouth. But in an instant she changed it to a tender expression.

To Heppner she said: "I am glad to have made the acquaintance of one of my future husband's comrades."

"When you are married, FrÄulein, we shall be living in the same building," replied Heppner eagerly. "We shall be great friends, shall we not?"

And the beauty raised her eyes to his with a peculiar glance as she answered softly: "Oh yes, I think so."