To the right
sparkled and flashed a wild mountain stream on its way to the broad,
fertile valley, which, mistily green and brown and yellow with vineyards
and hops and corn, spread out and on to the north, stopping abruptly at
the base of the more formidable chain of mountains.
Across this lofty jumble of barren rock and glacial cleft, now purpling
and darkening as the sun mellowed in its decline, lay the kingdom of
Jugendheit; and toward this the wayfarer gazed meditatively, absorbing
little or nothing of the exquisite panorama. By and by his gaze wavered,
and that particular patch in the valley, brown from the beating of many
iron-shod horses, caught and chained his interest for a space. It was
the military field, and it glittered and scintillated as squadron after
squadron of cavalry dashed from side to side or wheeled in bewildering
circles.
"The philosophy of war is to prepare for it," mused the old man, with a
jerk of his shoulders. "France! So the mutter runs. There is a Napoleon
in France, but no Bonaparte. Clatter-clatter! Bang-bang!" He laughed
ironically and cautiously glanced at his watch, an article which must
have cost him many and many a potato-patch. He pulled his hat over his
eyes, scratched the irritating stubble on his chin, and stepped forward.
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