But Fouillade has lost interest in what they say. He has bent his
long Don Quixote carcase down in the shadow, and outstretched the
lean neck that looks as if it were braided with violin strings.
There is something on the ground that attracts him.

It is Labri, the other squad's dog, an uncertain sort of mongrel
sheep-dog, with a lopped tail, curled up on a tiny litter of
straw-dust. Fouillade looks at Labri, and Labri at him.
Becuwe comes up and says, with the intonation of the Lille
district, "He won't eat his food; the dog isn't well. Hey, Labri,
what's the matter with you? There's your bread and meat; eat it up;
it's good when it's in your bucket. He's poorly. One of these
mornings we shall find him dead."

Labri is not happy. The soldier to whom he is entrusted is hard on
him, and usually ill-treats him--when he takes any notice of him at
all. The animal is tied up all day. He is cold and ill and left to
himself. He only exists. From time to time, when there is movement
going on around him, he has hopes of going out, rises and stretches
himself, and bestirs his tail to incipient demonstration. But he is
disillusioned, and lies down again, gazing past his nearly full
mess-tin.

He is weary, and disgusted with life. Even if he has escaped the
bullet or bomb to which he is as much exposed as we, he will end by
dying here. Fouillade puts his thin hand on the dog's head, and it
gazes at him again. Their two glances are alike--the only difference
is that one comes from above and the other from below.