"You should have seen him," says Fouillade, "it was disgusting,
those two ears hanging down. We had two packets of bandages, and the
stretcher-men fired us one in. That makes three packets he's got
rolled round his nut."

"Give us your traps, we're going back."

Farfadet and I divide Volpatte's equipment between us. Fouillade,
sullen with thirst and racked by stiff joints, growls, and insists
obstinately on keeping his weapons and bundles.

We stroll back, finding diversion--as always--in walking without
ranks. It is so uncommon that one finds it surprising and
profitable. So it is a breach of liberty which soon enlivens all
four of us. We are in the country as though for the pleasure of it.

"We are pedestrians!" says Volpatte proudly. When we reach the
turning at the top of the hill, he relapses upon rosy visions: "Old
man, it's a good wound, after all. I shall be sent back, no mistake
about it."

His eyes wink and sparkle in the huge white clump that dithers on
his shoulders--a clump reddish on each side, where the ears were.

From the depth where the village lies we hear ten o'clock strike.
"To hell with the time," says Volpatte "it doesn't matter to me any
more what time it is."

He becomes loquacious. It is a low fever that inspires his