might have envied. He had been honoured by the highest.

And then at the very zenith of his prosperity had come his downfall. His
gun, the cherished invention that was to place the French artillery at
the head of the list, the child of his brain, his own peculiar treasure,
was discovered to have been purchased by another Government three months
before he had offered it to his own.

None but himself--so it was believed, so it was ultimately to be proved
to the satisfaction of impartial judges--had been in a position at that
time to betray the secret, for none but himself had then possessed it.
And a great storm of indignation went through the whole country over the
revelation.

Passionately but uselessly he protested his innocence. There were a few,
even among his judges, who secretly believed him; but the proof was
incontestable. Inch by inch he had been forced down from the heights that
he had so gallantly scaled, and now he was on the brink of the precipice,
no longer fighting, only waiting with the unflinching courage of the
French aristocrat to be hurled headlong into the abyss that yawned below.

The yelling of the crowd outside the court was only a detail of the
bitter process that was gradually compassing his condemnation. He knew he
was to be convicted. It was written in varying characters upon every
face; pity, severity, disgust--he met them on every hand. And so on this
the fifth and last day of his court-martial he confronted destiny--that
destiny that he had once so gaily dared--with closed lips and eyes that
revealed neither misery nor despair, only the indomitable pride of his
race. Do what they would to him, they would never quench that while life
remained. The worst indignity that man could inflict would provoke no