                             CHAPTER SEVEN
          
          The youth cringed as if discovered in a crime. But heavens,
     they had won after all! The imbecile line had remained and become
     victors. He could hear cheering.
          He lifted himself upon his toes and looked in the direction of
     the fight. A yellow fog lay wallowing on the treetops. From beneath
     it came the clatter of musketry. Hoarse cries told of an advance.
          He turned away amazed and angry. He felt that he had been
     wronged.
          He had fled, he told himself, because annihilation approached.
     He had done a good part in saving himself, who was a little piece
     of the army. He had considered the time, he said, to be one in
     which it was the duty of every little piece to rescue itself if
     possible. Later the officers could fit the little pieces together
     again, and make a battle front. If none of the little pieces were
     wise enough to save themselves from the flurry of death at such a
     time, why, then, where would be the army? It was all plain that he
     had proceeded according to very correct and commendable rules. His
     actions had been sagacious things. They had been full of strategy.
     They were the work of a master's legs.
          Thoughts of his comrades came to him. The brittle blue line
     had withstood the blows and won. He grew bitter over it. It seemed
     that the blind ignorance and stupidity of those little pieces had
     betrayed him. He had been overturned and crushed by their lack of
     sense in holding the position, when intelligent deliberation would
     have convinced them that it was impossible. He, the enlightened man
     who looks afar in the dark, had fled because of his superior
     perceptions and knowledge. He felt a great anger against his
     comrades. He knew it could be proved that they had been fools.
          He wondered what they would remark when later he appeared in
     camp. His mind heard howls of derision. Their destiny would not
     enable them to understand his sharper point of view.
          He began to pity himself acutely. He was ill used. He was
     trodden beneath the feet of an iron injustice. He had proceeded
     with wisdom and from the most righteous motives under heaven's blue
     only to be frustrated by hateful circumstances.
          A dull, animal-like rebellion against his fellows, war in the
     abstract, and fate grew within him. He shambled along with bowed
     head, his brain in a tumult of agony and despair. When he looked
     loweringly up, quivering at each sound, his eyes had the expression
     of those of a criminal who thinks his guilt and his punishment
     great, and knows that he can find no words.
          He went from the fields into a thick wood, as if resolved to
     bury himself. He wished to get out of hearing of the cracking shots
     which were to him like voices.
          The ground was cluttered with vines and bushes, and the trees
     grew close and spread out like bouquets. He was obliged to force
     his way with much noise. The creepers, catching against his legs,
     cried out harshly as their sprays were torn from the barks of
     trees. The swishing saplings tried to make known his presence to
     the world. He could not conciliate the forest. As he made his way,
     it was always calling out protestations. When he separated embraces
     of trees and vines the disturbed foliages waved their arms and
     turned their face leaves toward him. He dreaded lest these noisy
     motions and cries should bring men to look at him. So he went far,
     seeking dark and intricate places.
          After a time the sound of musketry grew faint and the cannon
     boomed in the distance. The sun, suddenly apparent, blazed among
     the trees. The insects were making rhythmical noises. They seemed
     to be grinding their teeth in unison. A woodpecker stuck his
     impudent head around the side of a tree. A bird flew on
     lighthearted wing.
          Off was the rumble of death. It seemed now that Nature had no
     ears.
          This landscape gave him assurance. A fair field holding life.
     It was the religion of peace. It would die if its timid eyes were
     compelled to see blood. He conceived Nature to be a woman with a
     deep aversion to tragedy.
          He threw a pine cone at a jovial squirrel, and he ran with
     chattering fear. High in a treetop he stopped, and, poking his head
     cautiously from behind a branch, looked down with an air of
     trepidation.
          The youth felt triumphant at this exhibition. There was the
     law, he said. Nature had given him a sign. The squirrel,
     immediately upon recognizing danger, had taken to his legs without
     ado. He did not stand stolidly baring his furry belly to the
     missile, and die with an upward glance at the sympathetic heavens.
     On the contrary, he had fled as fast as his legs could carry him;
     and he was but an ordinary squirrel, too---doubtless no philosopher
     of his race. The youth wended, feeling that Nature was of his mind.
     She reinforced his argument with proofs that lived where the sun
     shone.
          Once he found himself almost into a swamp. He was obliged to
     walk upon bog tufts and watch his feet to keep from the oily mire.
     Pausing at one time to look about him he saw, out at some black
     water, a small animal pounce in and emerge directly with a gleaming
     fish.
          The youth went again into the deep thickets. The brushed
     branches made a noise that drowned the sounds of cannon. He walked
     on, going from obscurity into promises of a greater obscurity.
          At length he reached a place where the high, arching boughs
     made a chapel. He softly pushed the green doors aside and entered.
     Pine needles were a gentle brown carpet. There was a religious half
     light.
          Near the threshold he stopped, horror-stricken at the sight of
     a thing.
          He was being looked at by a dead man who was seated with his
     back against a column-like tree. The corpse was dressed in a
     uniform that once had been blue, but was now faded to a melancholy
     shade of green. The eyes, staring at the youth, had changed to the
     dull hue to be seen on the side of a dead fish. The mouth was open.
     Its red had changed to an appalling yellow. Over the gray skin of
     the face ran little ants. One was trundling some sort of a bundle
     along the upper lip.
          The youth gave a shriek as he confronted the thing. He was for
     moments turned to stone before it. He remained staring into the
     liquid-looking eyes. The dead man and the living man exchanged a
     long look. Then the youth cautiously put one hand behind him and
     brought it against a tree. Leaning upon this he retreated, step by
     step, with his face still toward the thing. He feared that if he
     turned his back the body might spring up and stealthily pursue him.
          The branches, pushing against him, threatened to throw him
     over upon it. His unguided feet, too, caught aggravatingly in
     brambles; and with it all he received a subtle suggestion to touch
     the corpse. As he thought of his hand upon it he shuddered
     profoundly.
          At last he burst the bonds which had fastened him to the spot
     and fled, unheeding the underbrush. He was pursued by a sight of
     the black ants swarming greedily upon the gray face and venturing
     horribly near to the eyes.
          After a time he paused, and breathless and panting, listened.
     He imagined some strange voice would come from the dead throat and
     squawk after him in horrible menaces.
          The trees about the portals of the chapel moved soughingly in
     a soft wind. A sad silence was upon the little guarding edifice.
     
     
