spectre with the scythe of Death. He recognized them as only divinities, familiar and terrible—which had made their presence felt by mankind. All the rest was a dream. The four horsemen were the reality.…
Suddenly, by the mysterious process of telepathy, he seemed to read the thoughts of the one grieving at his feet.
The mother, impelled by her own sorrow, was thinking of that of others. She, too, was looking toward the distant horizon. There she seemed to see a procession of the enemy, grieving in the same way as were her family. She saw Elena with her daughters going in and out among the burial grounds, seeking a loved one, falling on their knees before a cross. Ay, this mournful satisfaction, she could never know completely! It would be forever impossible for her to pass to the opposite side in search of the other grave, for, even after some time had passed by, she could never find it. The beloved body of Otto would have disappeared forever in one of the nameless pits which they had just passed.
"O Lord, why did we ever come to these lands? Why did we not continue living in the land where we were born?" …
Desnoyers, too, uniting his thoughts with hers, was seeing again the pampas, the immense green plains of the ranch where he had become acquainted with his wife. Again he could hear the tread of the herds. He recalled Madariaga on tranquil nights proclaiming, under the splendor of the stars, the joys of peace, the sacred brotherhood of these people of most diverse extraction, united by labor, abundance and the lack of political ambition.
And as his thoughts swung back to the lost son he, too, exclaimed with his wife, "Oh, why did we ever come?…" He, too, with the solidarity of grief, began
