He had passed into the town unchallenged. The fatigue parties,
hunting by twos and threes among the ruins of the river-front for
corpses to burn or bury, doubtless supposed him to be about the same
business. At any rate, they paid him no attention.

Just within the walls, where the conflagration had burnt itself out,
there were patches of black shadow to be crossed carefully.
The fighting had been obstinate here, and more than one blazing house
had collapsed into the thick of it. The corporal picked his way
gingerly, shivering a little at the thought of some things buried, or
half-buried, among the loose stones. Indeed, at the head of the
first street his foot entangled itself in something soft. It turned
out to be nothing more than a man's cloak, or _poncho_, and he
slipped it on, to hide his uniform and avoid explanations should he
fall in with one of the patrols; but the feel of it gave him a scare
for a moment.

The lad, in fact, was sick of fighting and slaughter--physically ill
at the remembrance and thought of them. The rage of the assault had
burnt its way through him like a fever and left him weak, giddy,
queasy of stomach. He had always hated the sight of suffering, even
the suffering of dumb animals: and as a sportsman, home in England,
he had learnt to kill his game clean, were it beast or bird.
In thought, he had always loathed the trade of a butcher, and had
certainly never guessed that soldiering could be--as here in San
Sebastian he had seen it--more bestial than the shambles.

For some reason, as he picked his road, his mind wandered away from
the reek and stink of San Sebastian and back to England, back to
Somerset, to the slopes of Mendip. His home there had overlooked an