a real red god, who looked upon Hubert, took an instant dislike
to him, relieved him of his ticket and went in again. During
the ensuing period of suspense the last vestige of Hubert's
personality departed from him.

Again the door opened and another red one, even more godlike,
emerged clamouring for Hubert and his blood. Had he still been in
possession of his ticket (a necessary passport for egress) Hubert
would have fled. There was nothing for it but to confess his
identity and to hope for mercy. The god, who clearly had not more
than three and a half seconds to spare, demanded an explanation of
his presence. Hubert admitted that once, in a moment of impudent
folly, he had thought of asking for a day's extension. The god
said nothing, but a light smouldered in his eyes which intimated
to Hubert that if he did not at once produce some paramount excuse
for so monstrous a request the War would be held up and the
military machine would be concentrated on punishing Hubert.
His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; even if it had been
available it would have helped little, for it is more than mere
words that the gods require. His hand searched in his pockets and
produced the return half of his leave warrant, a five-franc
note, a box of matches, a recently purchased paper flag and the
politician's secretary's note. The first and the last were taken,
the rest fell to the floor, the door closed once more and again
Hubert was alone.

Hubert doesn't know what he did next; probably, he thinks, he sat
down and wept, and it was his tears that induced the gods not to
convert his ticket into a death-warrant, but instead to give him
the slip, "Leave extended one day for urgent private business."