"Yes—I am a private in the Elberfeld battalion." He spread out his delicate, sensitive, surgeon's hands and looked at them. "I was at one time a sergeant," he added, "but my discipline did not satisfy my lieutenant and I was reduced to the ranks."

Stewart also stared at those beautiful hands, so expressive, so expert. How vividly they typified the waste of war!

"But it's absurd," he protested, "that a man like you—highly-trained, highly-educated, a specialist—should be made to shoulder a rifle. In the ranks, you are worth no more than the most ignorant peasant."

"Not so much," corrected Bloem. "Our ideal soldier is one whose obedience is instant and unquestioning."

"But why are you not placed where you would be most efficient—in the hospital corps, perhaps?"

"There are enough old and middle-aged surgeons for that duty. Young men must fight! Besides, I am suspected of having too many ideas!"

He sat for a moment longer staring down at his hands—staring too, perhaps, at his career so ruthlessly shattered—then he shook himself together and glanced across at his companion with a wry little smile.

"You will think me a great croaker!" he said. "It was the first shock—the thought of everything going to pieces. In a day or two, I shall be marching as light-heartedly as all the others—knowing only that I am fighting the enemies of my country—and wishing to know no more!"

But Stewart did not answer the smile. Confused thoughts were flying through his head—thoughts which he struggled to compose into some order or sequence.

Bloem looked at him for a moment, and his smile grew more ironic.

"I can guess what is in your mind," he said. "You are wondering why we march at all—why we offer ourselves as cannon-fodder, if we do not wish to do so. You are thinking of defiances, of revolutions. But there will never be a revolution in Germany—not in this generation."

"Yes, I was thinking something like that," Stewart agreed. "Why will there be no revolution?"

"Because we are too thoroughly drilled in the habit of obedience. That habit is grooved deep into our brains. Were any of us so rash as to start a revolution, the government could stop it with a single word."

"A single word?"

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