“Will you go to Chastel yourself?” asked John of Weber.

“Not at present.  I bear a message which takes me in the Forest of Argonne, but I shall return along this line in a day or two, and it may be that I can reach the village.  If so, I shall tell Mademoiselle Julie and the Picards that I have seen you here, and perhaps I can communicate also with Lannes.”

“I thank you for your kindness in coming to tell me this.”

“It was no more than I should have done.  I knew you would be glad to hear, and now, with your permission, Captain Colton, I’ll go.”

“Take narrow, transverse trench, leading south.  Good of you to see us,” said the captain of the Strangers.

The Alsatian shook hands with John and disappeared in the cut which led a long distance from the front.  Colton extinguished the torch and the two sat a little while in the darkness.  Although vast armies faced one another along a front of four hundred miles, little could be heard where John and his captain sat, save the sighing of the wind and the faint sound made by the steady fall of the snow, which was heaping up at their feet.

Not a light shone in the trench.  John knew that innumerable sentinels were on guard, striving to see and hear, but a million or two million men lay buried alive there, while the snow drifted down continually.  The illusion that the days of primeval man had come back was strong upon him again.  They had become, in effect, cave-dwellers once more, and their chief object was to kill.  He listened to the light swish of the snow, and thought of the blue heights into which he had often soared with Lannes.

Captain Colton lighted another cigarette and it glowed in the dark.

“Uncanny,” he said.

“I find it more so than usual tonight,” said John.  “Maybe it’s the visit of Weber that makes me feel that way, recalling to me that I was once a man, a civilized human being who bathed regularly and who put on clean clothes at frequent intervals.”

“Such days may come again—­for some of us.”

“So they may.  But it’s ghastly here, holed up like animals for the winter.”

“Comparison not fair to animals.  They choose snug dens.  Warm leaves and brush all about ’em.”

“While we lie or stand in mud or snow.  After all, Captain, the animals have more sense in some ways than we.  They kill one another only for food, while we kill because of hate or ignorance.”

“Mostly ignorance.”

“I suppose so.  Hear that!  It’s a pleasant sound.”

“So it is.  Makes me think of home.”

Some one further down the trench was playing a mouth organ.  It was merely a thin stream of sound, but it had a soft seductive note.  The tune was American, a popular air.  It was glorified so far away and in such terrible places, and John suddenly grew sick for home and the pleasant people in the sane republic beyond the seas.  But he crushed the emotion and listened in silence as the player played on.