was still grasping his weapon. He was a handsome fellow, thin and
dark. No wound was visible, but his face was strikingly pale under
the red _chéchia_ which had been pulled down over his ears.

I looked at Wattrelot. The good fellow's eyes were filled with tears.
"Come!" thought I, "we must not give way like this."

"Wattrelot, my friend, we shall see plenty more. You know, they were
brave fellows who have been killed doing their duty. We must not pity
them...."

Wattrelot did not answer. I galloped off again towards the big rick by
which stood General T.'s Staff. I had already forgotten what I had
seen, and my attention was fixed upon that small group of men standing
motionless near the top of the ridge. German shells kept bursting over
them from time to time. We were now about 100 yards off, so I left
Wattrelot and my spare horse hidden behind a shattered hovel and went
alone towards the rick.

But just as I was coming up to it I heard a curious hissing noise
which lasted about the twentieth part of a second, and, above my
head--how high I could not quite tell--vrran!... vrran!--two shells
exploded with a tremendous noise. I ducked my head instinctively and
tried to make myself as small as possible on my horse. A thought
passed through my mind like a flash: "Here we are! Why on earth did I
come up here? My campaign will have been a short one!" And then this
other thought followed: "But I'm not hit! That's all their shells can
do! I shan't trouble to duck in future."

And yet I was disagreeably impressed: a soldier who had been holding a