distend.

But he will not, he cannot make up his mind....

He wants to suffer a little longer.

I draw near to his bed in the gathering darkness. His breathing is
so light that suddenly, I stop and listen open-mouthed, full of
anxiety.

Then Carre suddenly opens his eyes.

Will he sigh and groan? No. He smiles and says:

"What white teeth you have!"

Then he dreams, as if he were dying.

Could you have imagined such a martyrdom, my brother, when you
were driving the plough into your little plot of brown earth?

Here you are, enduring a death-agony of five months swathed in
these livid wrappings, without even the rewards that are given to
others.

Your breast, your shroud must be bare of even the humblest of the
rewards of valour, Carre.

It was written that you should suffer without purpose and without
hope.