For
Weixler, whose mind was set on nothing but the medal for distinguished
service, which he wanted to obtain as soon as possible--for a twenty-
year-old fighting cock who fancied the world rotated about his own, most
important person and had had no time to estimate the truer values of
life--for him it might be no more than an exciting promenade, a new
sting to the nerves, a fine way of becoming thoroughly conscious of
one's personality and placing one's fearlessness in a more brilliant
light. Probably he had long been secretly deriding his old captain's
indecision and had cursed the last halt because it forced him to wait
another half hour to achieve his first deed of heroism.
Marschner mowed down the tall blades of grass with his riding whip and
from time to time glanced at his company surreptitiously. He could tell
by the way the men dragged themselves to their feet with a sort of
resistance, like children roused from sleep, that they fully understood
where they were now to go.
The complete silence in which they packed their bundles and fell into
line made his heart contract.
Ever since the beginning of the war, he had been preparing himself for
this moment without relax. He had brooded over it day and night, had
told himself a thousand times that where a higher interest is at stake,
the misery of the individual counts for nothing, and a conscientious
leader must armor himself with indifference.
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