ling down my
campaigning cap over my ears. Well, after all, the evil was less than
I had feared. It was not raining, but drizzling. The air was mild, and
there was not a breath of wind. When once our cloaks were on it would
take some hours for the wet to reach our shirts. At the farther end of
the yard some men were moving about round a small fire. Their shadows
passed to and fro in front of the ruddy light. They were making
coffee--_jus_, as they call it--that indispensable ration in which
they soak bread and make a feast without which they think a man cannot
be a good soldier.

I ran to my troop through muddy alleys, skipping from side to side to
avoid the puddles. Daylight appeared, pale and dismal. A faint smell
rose from the sodden ground.

"Nothing new, _mon Lieutenant_," were the words that greeted me from
the sergeant, who then made his report. I had every confidence in him;
he had been some years in the service, and knew his business. Small
and lean, and tightly buttoned into his tunic, in spite of all our
trials he was still the typical smart light cavalry non-commissioned
officer. I knew he had already gone round the stables, which he did
with a candle in his hand, patting the horses' haunches and looking
with a watchful eye to see whether some limb had not been hurt by a
kick or entangled in its tether.

In the large yard of the abandoned and pillaged farm, where the men
had been billeted they were hurrying to fasten the last buckles and
take their places in the ranks. I quickly swallowed my portion of
insipid lukewarm coffee, brought me by my orderly; then I went to get
my orders from the Captain, who was lodged in the market-square. No
word had yet been received from the Colonel, who was quartered at the
farm of Vadiville, two kilometres off. Patience! We had been used to
these long waits since the army had been pulled up before the
formidable line of trenches which the Germans had dug north of Reims.
They were certainly most disheartening; but it could not be helped,
and it was of no use to complain. I turned and went slowly up the
steep footpath that led to my billet.

Pevy is a poor little village, clinging to the last slopes of a line
of heights that runs parallel to the road from Reims to Paris. Its
houses are huddled together, and seem to be grouped at the foot of the
ridges for protection from the north wind. The few alleys which
intersect the village climb steeply up the side of the hill. We w