blew out a long breath--as if enjoying the
effect of the steam in the icy light.

"Are they under fire?" he asked.

"You see them from here--how silent they are! The enemy does not fire
until we reach the valley."

So he made no bones about his fears. Nothing of the charge would be
required of him. He could withdraw after his inspiration.... Hate
was growing within me. God, how I came to hate him--not for his
cowardice--that was a novelty, and so freely acknowledged, but because
he would sing the men to their death. This was the tame elephant that
they use to subdue the wild ones--this the decoy--the little white
bastard.

"Very well, I will walk up and down the trenches, singing--" He said it
a bit cockily.

I was in no way a revolutionist, yet I vowed some time to get him,
alone.... I seemed to see myself in a crowded city street at night--some
city full of lights, as far as heaven from now--going in with the crowd
under the lights--to hear him sing. There I could get him.... Not a
revolutionist, at all; no man in the enlisted ranks more trusted than
I; attached for dispatch-work at brigade-headquarters; in all likelihood
of appearance so stupid, as to be accepted as a good soldier and nothing
more.... Now I remembered how far I was from the lights of any city and
crowded streets--here in the desperate winter fighting, our world crazed
with punishment, and planning for real fighting in the Spring. The dead
of the valley arose before my eyes.... Perhaps within an hour _my_ room
would be ready. Still I should be sorry to pass, and leave Chautonville
living on.

They beckoned me to his escort. I followed, hoping to see him die
presently. This new hope was to watch him die--and not do it with my
hands. Yes, I _trusted_ that Chautonville would not come back from the
trenches.

The pits stretched out in either direction--bitten into the ground
by the most miserable men the light of day uncovered--bitten through
the snow and then through a thick floor of frost as hard as cement. I
heard their voices--men of my own country--voices as from swooning
men--lost to all mercy, ready to die, not as men, but preying, cornered
animals--forgotten of God, it seemed, though that was illusion;
forgotten of home which was worse to their hearts, and illusion, too.
For we could not hold the fact of home. It had proved too hard for us.
The bond had snapped. Only death seemed sure.

Chautonville opened his mouth.

It was like sitt