of mud but half reveal.

Meanwhile, the hours slip away, and evening begins to veil the sky and
darken the things of earth. It comes to blend itself at once with the
blind fate and the ignorant dark minds of the multitude there
enshrouded.

Through the twilight comes the rolling hum of tramping men, and another
throng rubs its way through.

"Africans!"

They march past with faces red-brown, yellow or chestnut, their beards
scanty and fine or thick and frizzled, their greatcoats
yellowish-green, and their muddy helmets sporting the crescent in place
of our grenade. Their eyes are like balls of ivory or onyx, that shine
from faces like new pennies, flattened or angular. Now and again comes
swaying along above the line the coal-black mask of a Senegalese
sharpshooter. Behind the company goes a red flag with a green hand in
the center.

We watch them in silence. These are asked no questions. They command
respect, and even a little fear.

All the same, these Africans seem jolly and in high spirits. They are
going, of course, to the first line. That is their place, and their
passing is the sign of an imminent attack. They are made for the
offensive.

"Those and the 75 gun we can take our hats off to. They're everywhere
sent ahead at big moments, the Moroccan Division."

"They can't quite fit in with us. They go too fast--and there's no way
of stopping them."

Some of these diabolical images in yellow wood or bronze or ebony are
serious of mien, uneasy, and taciturn. Their faces have the disquieting
and secret look of the snare suddenly discovered. The others laugh with
a laugh that jangles like fantastic foreign instruments of music, a
laugh that bares the teeth.

We talk over the characteristics of these Africans; their ferocity in
attack, their devouring passion to be in with the bayonet, their
predilection for "no quarter." We recall those tales that they
themselves willingly tell, all in much the same words and with the same
gestures. They raise their arms over their heads--"Kam'rad, Kam'rad!"
"Non, pas Kam'rad!" And in pantomime they drive a bayonet forward, at
belly-height, drawing it back then with the help of a foot.

One of the sharpshooters overhears our talk as he passes. He looks upon
us, laughs abundantly in his helmeted turban, and repeats our words
with significant shakes of his head: "Pas Kam'rad, non pas Kam'rad,
never! Cut head off!"

"No doubt they're a different race from us, with their t