a light," he replied.

"Fear?" exclaimed Eugene Aronson, the farmer's son, whose big, plain
face expressed dumb incomprehension. He alone was standing. Being the
giant and the athlete of the company, the march had not tired him.

"Fear?" some of the others repeated. The sentiment was astounding, and
Hugo was as manifestly in earnest as if he were a minister addressing a
parliamentary chamber.

"Yes, don't you?" asked Hugo, in bland surprise.

"I should say not!" declared Eugene.

"Do you want to be killed?" asked Hugo, with profound interest.

"The bullet isn't made that will get me!" answered Eugene, throwing back
his broad shoulders.

"I don't know," mused Hugo, eying the giant up and down. "You're pretty
big, Gene, and a bullet that only nicked one of us in the bark might get
you in the wood. However, if you are sure that you are in no danger,
why, you don't count. But let's take a census while we are about it and
see who wants to be killed. First, you, Armand; do you?" he asked the
doctor's son, Armand Daution.

Armand grinned. The others grinned, not at him, but at the quizzical
solemnity of Hugo's manner.

"If so, state whether you prefer bullets or shrapnel, early in the