to be
killed. So it'll probably happen."

Martin Howe could not help looking at him suddenly. The aspirant sat at
ease on the stone margin of the well, leaning against the wrought iron
support for the bucket, one knee clasped in his strong, heavily-veined
hands. Dead he would be different. Martin's mind could hardly grasp the
connection between this man full of latent energies, full of thoughts
and desires, this man whose shoulder he would have liked to have put his
arm round from friendliness, with whom he would have liked to go for
long walks, with whom he would have liked to sit long into the night
drinking and talking--and those huddled, pulpy masses of blue uniform
half-buried in the mud of ditches.

"Have you ever seen a herd of cattle being driven to abattoir on a fine
May morning?" asked the aspirant in a scornful, jaunty tone, as if he
had guessed Martin's thoughts.

"I wonder what they think of it."

"It's not that I'm resigned.... Don't think that. Resignation is too
easy. That's why the herd can be driven by a boy of six ... or a prime
minister!"

Martin was sitting with his arms crossed. The fingers of one hand were
squeezing the muscle of his forearm. It gave him pleasure to feel the
smooth, firm modelling of his arm through his sleeve. And how would that
feel when it was dead, when a steel splinter had slithered through it? A
momentary stench of putrefaction filled his nostrils, making his stomach
contract with nausea.

"I'm not resigned either," he shouted in a laugh. "I am going to do
something some day, but first I must see. I want to be initiated in all
the circles of hell."

"I'd play the part of Virgil pretty well," said the aspirant, "but I
suppose Virgil was a staff officer."

"I must go," said Martin. "My name's Martin Howe, S.S.U. 84."

"Oh yes, you are quartered in the square. My name is Merrier. You'll
probably carry me back in your little omnibus."

* * * * *

When Howe got back to where the cars were packed in a row in the village
square, Randolph came up to him and whispered in his ear:

"D.J.'s to-morrow."

"What's that?"

"The attack. It's to-morrow at three in the morning; instructions are
going to be given out to-night."

A detonation behind them was like a blow on the head, making their
ear-drums ring. The glass in the headlight of one of the cars tinkled to
the ground.

"The 410 behind the church, that was. Pretty near knocks the w