A German
captain was standing in front of him. They had almost bumped into each
other. They looked into each other's eyes with more suspense than hate,
yet at the same time, they were trying instinctively to kill each other,
each one trying to get the advantage by his swiftness. The captain
had dropped the map that he was carrying. His right hand sought his
revolver, trying to draw it from its case without once taking his eyes
off his enemy. Then he had to give this up as useless--it was too late.
With his eyes distended by the proximity of death, he kept his gaze
fixed upon the Frenchman who had raised his gun to his face. A shot,
from a barrel almost touching him . . . and the German fell dead.
Not till then did the victor notice the captain's orderly who was but a
few steps behind. He shot Desnoyers, wounding him in the shoulder. The
French hurried to the spot, killing the corporal. Then there was a sharp
cross-fire with the enemy's company which had halted a little ways off
while their commander was exploring the ground. Julio, in spite of
his wound, continued at the head of his section, defending the factory
against superior forces until supports arrived, and the land remained
definitely in the power of the French.
"Wasn't that about the way of it?" Don Marcelo would always wind up.
The son assented, desirous that his annoyance with the persistent story
should come to an end as soon as possible.
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