Our kitchenmaid was beforehand with me.
One day, when I had furtively slipped out to the kitchen, in order to question Frans, I heard Mie, our maid, say—
“I say, Frans, have you been in the wars, that you have such a mark over your face?”
Then he replied—
“In the wars! I believe you! We’ve nothing more to do with wars in this country, now! No,—when I was leaving the service, I treated my chum one night. But he got drunk and outrageous, and chucked me through a window, so that I cut my face open. No—I didn’t get it in the wars—and jolly glad of it, too!”
I stood thunderstruck—the tears rose in my eyes.
No wounds on his breast! Even the scar was a delusion and a snare. I no longer believed in living heroes. They no longer existed.
But I was going to be a hero all the same. And till I was able to re-introduce the breed, I would content myself with the dead heroes of the past.
“I HAD FURTIVELY SLIPPED OUT TO THE KITCHEN.”