He was weary, dusty,
lame and out of humor; besides, he had a new weight on his
conscience. The night before he had taken the life of a man.
True, this had happened before, but always in warfare. He had
killed in a moment of rage and chagrin a poor devil who was at
most only a puppet. There was small credit in the performance.
However, the rascal would have suffered death in any event, his
act being one of high treason.
In the long ride he had made up his mind to lock away forever
the silly dream, the tender, futile, silly dream. All men die
with secrets locked in their hearts; thus he, too, would die.
His fancy leaped across the chasm of intervening years to the
day of his death, and the thought was a happy one! He smiled
sadly, as young men smile when they pity themselves. He knew
that he would never get over it--in a day. But to-morrow, or to-
morrow's to-morrow . .
He took the pass's decline; the duchy spread away toward the
south. A quarter of a mile below him he saw the barrack and the
customs office which belonged to Madame the duchess. The
corporal inspected him and his papers, spoke lowly to the
customs inspector, who returned to his office.
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