heart was plunging. He poured himself a glass of wine, part of which he spilled on the floor, and gulped the remainder, leaning against the cool, green stove. He heard his man collecting the dishes from the stairs. Pale, as if intoxicated, he waited. The servant entered again. The Captain’s heart gave a pang, as of pleasure, seeing the young fellow bewildered and uncertain on his feet, with pain. 

 “Schöner!” he said. 

 The soldier was a little slower in coming to attention. 

 “Yes, sir!” 

 The youth stood before him, with pathetic young moustache, and fine eyebrows very distinct on his forehead of dark marble. 

 “I asked you a question.” 

 “Yes, sir.” 

 The officer’s tone bit like acid. 

 “Why had you a pencil in your ear?” 

 Again the servant’s heart ran hot, and he could not breathe. With dark, strained eyes, he looked at the officer, as if fascinated. And he stood there sturdily planted, unconscious. The withering smile came into the Captain’s eyes, and he lifted his foot. 

 “I—I forgot it—sir,” panted the soldier, his dark eyes fixed on the other man’s dancing blue ones. 

 “What was it doing there?” 

 He saw the young man’s breast heaving as he made an effort for words. 

 “I had been writing.” 

 “Writing what?” 

 Again the soldier looked him up and down. The officer could hear him panting. The smile came into the blue eyes. The soldier worked his dry throat, but could not speak. Suddenly the smile lit like a name on the officer’s face, and a kick came heavily against the orderly’s thigh. The youth moved a pace sideways. His face went dead, with two black, staring eyes. 

 “Well?” said the officer. 

 The orderly’s mouth had gone dry, and his tongue rubbed in it as on dry brown-paper. He worked his throat. The officer raised his foot. The 

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