lay, of course, right under our very noses and they had on the loveliest
shoes of bright yellow. My men begrudged 'em those shoes. There--" he
ended, pointing with his finger at the feet of the pale sergeant--
"there you see one pair. But we'll have to start now. March, sergeant!
My respects, Captain. The Italians'll open their eyes when they come
over to-night to finish us off comfortably and a hundred and fifty
rifles go off and two brand-new bullet squirters. Ha-ha! Sorry I can't
be here to see it! Good-by, little man! Good luck!" Humming a merry
popular song he followed his men without looking back, without even
observing that Marschner accompanied him a little on his way.

Gaily, as though on a Sunday picnic, the men started on the way, which
led over the terrible field of shards and ruins and the steep, shot-up
hill. What hells they must have endured there, in that mole's gallery!
The captain remained standing and heaved a deep sigh. It was as if that
long, grey column slowly winding its way through the trench were
carrying away the last hope. The back of the last soldier, growing
smaller and smaller, was the world. The captain's eyes clung greedily to
that back and measured fearfully the distance to the corner of the
trench from which he must lose sight of it forever. There was still time
to call out a greeting, and by running very fast one might still catch
up and hand over a letter.

Then the last medium disappeared--the last possibility of dividing the
world into two halves. And his yearning recoiled before the endless
space it had to bridge--and there was nothing else to bridge it but his
yearning.

Marschner sank into himself as he stood deserted in the empty trench. He
felt as though he had been hollowed out, and looked about for help, and