Returning to the rose garden, he stood among the Hun trampled
blooms and bushes above the grave of his dead-with bowed head he
stood there in a last mute farewell. As the sun sank slowly behind
the towering forests of the west, he turned slowly away upon the
still-distinct trail of Hauptmann Fritz Schneider and his blood-stained
company.

His was the suffering of the dumb brute--mute; but though voiceless
no less poignant. At first his vast sorrow numbed his other faculties
of thought--his brain was overwhelmed by the calamity to such an
extent that it reacted to but a single objective suggestion: She is
dead! She is dead! She is dead! Again and again this phrase beat
monotonously upon his brain--a dull, throbbing pain, yet mechanically
his feet followed the trail of her slayer while, subconsciously,
his every sense was upon the alert for the ever-present perils of
the jungle.

Gradually the labor of his great grief brought forth another
emotion so real, so tangible, that it seemed a companion walking
at his side. It was Hate--and it brought to him a measure of solace
and of comfort, for it was a sublime hate that ennobled him as
it has ennobled countless thousands since-hatred for Germany and
Germans. It centered about the slayer of his mate, of course; but
it included everything German, animate or inanimate. As the thought
took firm hold upon him he paused and raising his face to Goro, the
moon, cursed with upraised hand the authors of the hideous crime
that had been perpetrated in that once peaceful bungalow behind
him; and he cursed their progenitors, their progeny, and all their
kind the while he took silent oath to war upon them relentlessly