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 “Martini was an Italian. He was tall with sunburnt cheeks, raven hair and moustache, eyes dark as coals and a quick temper. When he talked he gesticulated with his hands and shouted as if he stood before a division of his soldiers. .

“‘And I dispute that,’ after a pause, spoke Lieutenant Šetina, a Czech from Bohemia. ‘A soldier to whom life is nothing cannot value it and will risk it for every piece of foolishness, on every trivial occasion—that’s poor principle. Such a man is not a hero in my eyes. A hero must know the value of his life. He protects it as his dearest possession as long, of course, as his defense of it squares with his military honor and conscience. He must know that with his life there disappears a sword from the ranks of the army of his country and therefore he ought to appreciate the worth of his life.’

“‘Šetina is right,’ interrupted Captain Kristovic, a native of Croatia, rocking on his chair.

“‘I still insist on my own view,’ burst out Martini. ‘One sword more or less—his Majesty always has a substitute. No one but a philistine or a coward would act as Šetina says. An Austrian officer sees no heroism in it.’

“Šetina’s cheeks filamed. He struck the table with his clenched fist and cried out, ‘And I again see in your ideal of heroism only an example of folly! It is wholly unreasonable! Just call back to mind the history of the wars of 1859 and 1866. The Austrian officers con-