Moreau was touched; he had been a clever youth, eaten up by the craving for knowledge, and like the rest of his class, he had suffered for lack of brotherly affection.  True human intercourse is banished from the education of today, but this vital sentiment, hitherto repressed, had revived in the trenches, filled with living, suffering flesh thrown together.  At first it was hard to let oneself go; the general hardening, the fear of sentimentality or of ridicule, tended to put barriers between hearts; but when Moreau was laid up, his sheath of pride began to give way, and Clerambault had little difficulty in breaking through it.  The best thing about this man was that false pride melted before him, for he had none of his own; people showed to him as he to them their real selves, their weakness and their troubles, which we are taught to hide from a silly idea of self-respect.  Moreau had unconsciously learned to recognise at the front the superiority of men who were his social inferiors, brother-soldiers or “Non-Coms.”  Among these he had been much drawn to Gillot.  He was glad that Clerambault should have appealed to him on behalf of his friend, for his secret wish always was to be of some use to another man.

At the next opportunity Clerambault whispered to Gillot that he ought to be optimistic for two, and cheer Moreau up; and thus each found help in the need of helping the other, according to the great principle of life:  “Give, and it shall be given unto you.”

No matter in what time one lives, nor what misfortunes overtake one, all is not lost as long as there remains in the heart of the race a spark of manly friendship.  Blow it into a flame!  Draw closer these cold solitary hearts!  If only one of the fruits of this war of nations could be the fusion of the best among all classes, the union of the youth of many countries—­of the manual labourers and the thinkers—­the future would be re-born through their mutual aid.

But if unity is not one wanting to dominate the other, neither is it that one prefers to be dominated.  But this was precisely, however, what these young revolutionaries thought, and insisted upon, with a curious sort of self-will.  They snubbed Clerambault, on the principle that intelligence should be at the service of the proletariat ...  “Dienen, dienen ...” which was the last word even of the proud Wagner.  More than one lofty spirit brought low has said the same; if they could not rule supreme, they would serve.

Clerambault reflected:  “The rarest thing is to find honest people who want to be simply my equals; but if we must choose, tyranny for tyranny, I prefer that which held the bodies of Aesop and Epictetus in slavery but left their minds free, to that which promises only material liberty and enslaves the soul.”