of sympathy; the guardians of the peace squinted cautiously from their
respective windows, and then began a debate on the number of the enemy
while their prisoners smiled at each other appreciatively.

"_Il fait chaud_," said this divine man, prisoner, criminal, or what not,
as he offered me a glass of wine in the form of a huge tin cup overflowed
from the canteen in his slightly unsteady and delicately made hand. He is
a Belgian. Volunteered at beginning of war. Permission at Paris,
overstayed by one day. When he reported to his officer, the latter
announced that he was a deserter--I said to him, "It is funny. It is
funny I should have come back, of my own free will, to my company. I
should have thought that being a deserter I would have preferred to
remain in Paris." The wine was terribly cold, and I thanked my divine
host.

Never have I tasted such wine.

They had given me a chunk of war-bread in place of blessing when I left
Noyon. I bit into it with renewed might. But the divine man across from
me immediately produced a sausage, half of which he laid simply upon my
knee. The halving was done with a large keen poilu's knife.

I have not tasted a sausage since.

The pigs on my either hand had by this time overcome their respective
inertias and were chomping cheek-murdering chunks. They had quite a
layout, a regular picnic-lunch elaborate enough for kings or even
presidents. The v-f-g in particular annoyed me by uttering alternate
chompings and belchings. All the time he ate he kept his eyes half-shut;
and a mist overspread the sensual meadows of his coarse face.