"
But a voice seemed to whisper in his ear: "And why? Why?"
"I know that trick," he thought. "It's that same wounded soldier again.
All right. I won't give in to him. 'Why? Why?' As if I knew why!
Perhaps if I knew why I shouldn't make war."
He lay down on his bed; but hardly had he closed his eyes when he saw by
his bedside the wounded soldier--young, fair-faced, blond-haired, with
just the first faint shadow of a mustache. His forehead was pale, his
lips were livid, his blue eyes were dim, and in his left temple there
was a round black hole made by the bullet from his--Napoleonder's--pistol.
And the ghastly figure seemed to ask again, "Why did you kill me?"
Napoleonder turns over and over, from side to side, in his bed. He sees
that it's a bad business. He can't get rid of that soldier. And, more
than all, he wonders at himself. "What an extraordinary occurrence!" he
thinks. "I've killed millions of people, of all countries and nations,
without the least misgiving; and now, suddenly, one miserable soldier
comes and throws all my ideas into a tangle!"
Finally Napoleonder got up; but the confinement of his golden tent
seemed oppressive.
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