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74 to me as though he were studying it more like a poet than a soldier. . . . I detected a sort of emotion in his eyes. . . . Perhaps he forgot why he had come here and allowed himself to be fascinated by the beauty of this virginal and triumphant dawn. The sky became all red, it blazed up gloriously, the awakened fields unrolled themselves in the distance, emerging one after another from their veil of mist, rose-colored and blue, which floated like long scarves ruffled by invisible hands. The trees were dripping dew, the hovels separated themselves from the pink and blue background, the dovecot of a large farm whose new tile roofs began to glitter, projected its whitish cone into the purple glare of the east. . . . Yes, this Prussian who started out with the notion to kill, was arrested, dazzled and reverently stirred by the splendor of a new-born day, and his soul for a few minutes was the captive of love.

"Perhaps it's a poet," I said to myself, "an artist; he must be kind, since he is capable of tenderness."

And upon his face I could see all the emotion of a brave man which agitated him, all the tremors, all the delicate and flitting reactions of his heart, moved and fascinated. . . . I feared him no longer. On the contrary, a sort of infatuation drew me towards him, and I had to hold on to the tree to keep myself from going to this man. I would have liked to speak to him, to tell him that it was well that he contemplated the heaven thus, and that I liked him because of his receptiveness to beauty. . . . But his face grew sombre, a sadness stole into his eyes. . . . Ah, the horizon over which they swept was so far, so far away! And beyond that horizon there was another and further on, still another! One had to conquer all that! . . . When was he to be relieved of his duty ever to spur his horse on through this nostalgic territory, always to cut a