Westerling was looking at the wreck. Lanstron, who recognized him as an
officer, though in mufti, kicked a bit of the torn cloth over some
apparatus to hide it. At this Westerling smiled faintly. Then Lanstron
saluted as officer to officer might salute across the white posts,
giving his name and receiving in return Westeling's.

They made a contrast, these two men, the colonel of the Grays, swart and
sturdy, his physical vitality so evident, and the captain of the Browns,
some seven or eight years the junior, bareheaded, in dishevelled fatigue
uniform, his lips twitching, his slender body quivering with the pain
that he could not control, while his rather bold forehead and delicate,
sensitive features suggested a man of nerve and nerves who might have
left experiments in a laboratory for an adventure in the air. There was
a kind of challenge in their glances; the challenge of an ancient feud
of their peoples; of the professional rivalry of polite duellists.
Lanstron's slight figure seemed to express the weaker number of the
three million soldiers of the Browns; Westerling's bulkier one, the four
million five hundred thousand of the Grays.

"You had a narrow squeak and you made a very snappy recovery at the last
second," said Westerling, passing a compliment across the white posts.
Marta could literally see a white post there between the two.

"That's in the line of duty for you and me, isn't it?" Lanstron
replied, his voice thick with pain as he forced a smile.

There was no pose in his fortitude. He was evidently disgusted with
himself over the whole business, and he turned to the group of three
officers and a civilian who alighted from a big Brown army automobile as