empties his glass. The other turns his back, not without grumbling
that "they're not very generous, but on the contrary greedy, these
Southerners."

Fouillade has put his chin on his fists, and looks unseeing at a
corner of the room where the crowded poilus elbow, squeeze, and
jostle each other to get by.

It was pretty good, that swig of white wine, but of what use are
those few drops in the Sahara of Fouillade? The blues did not far
recede, and now they return.

The Southerner rises and goes out, with his two glasses of wine in
his stomach and one sou in his pocket. He plucks up courage to visit
one more tavern, to plumb it with his eyes, and by way of excuse to
mutter, as he leaves the place, "Curse him! He's never there, the
animal!"

Then he returns to the barn, which still--as always--whistles with
wind and water. Fouillade lights his candle, and by the glimmer of
the flame that struggles desperately to take wing and fly away, he
sees Labri. He stoops low, with his light over the miserable
dog--perhaps it will die first. Labri is sleeping, hut feebly, for
he opens an eye at once, and his tail moves.

The Southerner strokes him, and says to him in a low voice, "It
can't be helped, it--" He will not say more to sadden him, but the
dog signifies appreciation by jerking his head before closing his
eyes again. Fouillade rises stiffly, by reason of his rusty joints,
and makes for his couch. For only one thing more he is now