“I should like you all to sign it—­to make it simply the old form of ‘the staff has the honor to report,’” he said finally.

There was a hush as he finished—­the hush of a deep impression when one man waits for another to speak.  All were looking at him except the vice-chief, who was still staring at the table as if he had heard nothing.  Yet every word was etched on his mind.  The man whose name was the symbol of victory to the soldiers, who would be more than ever a hero as the news of his charge with the African Braves travelled along the lines, would go on record to his soldiers as saying that they could not take the Gray range.  This was a handicap that the vice-chief did not care to accept; and he knew how to turn a phrase as well as to make a soldierly decision.  He looked up smilingly to Marta.

“I have decided that I had rather not be a Westerling, Miss Galland,” he said.  “We’ll make it unanimous.  And you,” he burst out to Lanstron—­“you legatee of old Partow; I’ve always said that he was the biggest man of our time.  He has proved it by catching the spirit of our time and incarnating it.”

Vaguely, in the whirl of her joy, Marta heard the chorus of assent as the officers sprang to their feet in the elation of being at one with their chief again.  Lanstron caught her arm, fearing that she was going to fall, but a burning question rose in her mind to steady her.

“Then my shame—­my sending men to slaughter—­my sacrifice was not in vain?” she exclaimed.

Misery crept into her eyes; she seemed to be seeing some horror that would always haunt her.  These businesslike men of the council were touched by a fresh understanding of her and of the reason for her success, which had demanded something more than human art—­something pure and fine and fearless underneath art.  They sought to win one more victory that should kill her memory of what she had done.

“Miss Galland,” said the vice-chief, “Westerling’s fate, whatever it is, would have been the same.  He could never have taken our range.  He would have only more lives to answer for, and Partow’s dream could not have come true.”

“You think that—­you—­all of you?” she asked.

“All!  All!” they said together.

“Yes, but for you the losses on both sides would have been greater—­hundreds of thousands greater,” concluded the vice-chief.  “And to-night I think you helped me to see right; you struck a light in my mind when I was about to forget the law of service.”

“You see, then, you did hasten the end, Marta,” said Lanstron.

“Yes, I do see, Lanny!” she whispered.  She was weak now, with no spur to her energy except her happiness as she leaned on his arm.  Then he felt an impulsive pressure as she looked up at him.  “The law of service, as you say!” she said, turning to the vice-chief.  “Isn’t that the finest law of all?  Couldn’t I help you with the appeal?  Perhaps I might put in it a thought to reach the women.  They are a part of public opinion”