weariness that weighs them down and
the new slaughter with which they are still bespattered, though each
has seen his brothers torn away from his side, in spite of all and in
spite of themselves, they are celebrating the Feast of the Survivors.
The boundless glory in which they rejoice is this--they still stand
straight.

IV

Volpatte and Fouillade

AS we reached quarters again, some one cried: "But where's
Volpatte?"--"And Fouillade, where's he?"

They had been requisitioned and taken off to the front line by the 5th
Battalion. No doubt we should find them somewhere in quarters. No
success. Two men of the squad lost!

"That's what comes of lending men," said the sergeant with a great
oath. The captain, when apprised of the loss, also cursed and swore and
said, "I must have those men. Let them be found at once. Allez!"

Farfadet and I are summoned by Corporal Bertrand from the barn where at
full length we have already immobilized ourselves, and are growing
torpid: "You must go and look for Volpatte and Fouillade."

Quickly we got up, and set off with a shiver of uneasiness. Our two
comrades have been taken by the 5th and carried off to that infernal
shift. Who knows where they are and what they may be by now!

We climb up the hill again. Again we begin, but in the opposite
direction, the journey done since the dawn and the night. Though we are
without our heavy stuff, and only carry rifles and accouterments, we
feel idle, sleepy, and stiff; and the country is sad, and the sky all
wisped with mist. Farfadet is soon panting. He talked a little at
first, till fatigue enforced silence on him. He is brave enough, but
frail, and during all his prewar life, shut up in the Town Hall office
where he scribbled since the days of his "first sacrament" between a
stove and some ageing cardboard files, he hardly learned the use of his
legs.

Just as we emerge from the wood, slipping and floundering, to penetrate
the region of communication trenches, two faint shadows are outlined in
front. Two soldiers are coming up. We can see the protuberance of their
burdens and the sharp lines of their rifles. The swaying double shape
becomes distinct--"It's them!"

One of the shadows has a great white head, all swathed--"One of them's
wounded! It's Volpatte!"

We run up to the specters, our feet making the sounds of sinking in
sponge and of sticky withdrawal, and our shaken cartridges rattle in
their pouches. They stand st