“Good old Marne,” he said, “you’re certainly one of the best friends I’ve found in Europe.  In fact, you’re about the only living being I’ve associated with that doesn’t want to kill somebody.”

He entered the house and closed the door.  In addition to the sitting-room there was a bedroom and a kitchen, all bearing the signs of recent occupancy.  He found a small petroleum lamp, but he concluded not to light it.  Instead he sat on a wooden bench in the main room beside a small window, ate a little more from the knapsack, and watched a while lest friend or enemy should come.

It had grown somewhat darker and the clouds were driving across the sky.  The wind was rising and the threatened flurries of rain came, beating against the cottage.  John was devoutly glad that he had found the little house.  Having spent many hours immersed to his neck in a river he felt that he had had enough water for one day.  Moreover, his escape, his snug shelter and the abundance of food at hand, gave him an extraordinary sense of ease and rest.  He noticed that in the darkness and rain one might pass within fifty feet of the cottage without seeing it.

The wind increased and moaned among the oaks that grew around the house, but above the moaning the sounds of battle, the distant thunder of the artillery yet came.  The sport of kings was going merrily on.  Neither night nor storm stopped it and men were still being ground by thousands into cannon food.  But John had now a feeling of detachment.  Three days of continuous battle had dulled his senses.  They might fight on as they pleased.  It did not concern him, for tonight at least.  He was going to look out for himself.

He fastened the door securely, but, as he left the window open, currents of fresh cool air poured into the room.  He was now fully revived in both mind and body, and he took present ease and comfort, thinking but little of the future.  The flurries of rain melted into a steady pour.  The cold deepened, and as he wrapped the two blankets around him his sense of comfort increased.  Lightning flared at infrequent intervals and now and then real thunder mingled with that of the artillery.

He felt that he might have been back at home.  It was like some snug little place in the high hills of Pennsylvania or New York.  Like many other Americans, he often felt surprise that Europe should be so much like America.  The trees and the grass and the rivers were just the same.  Nothing was different but the ancient buildings.  He knew now that history and a long literature merely created the illusion of difference.

He wondered why the artillery fire did not die, with the wind sweeping such gusts of rain before it.  Then he remembered that the sound of so many great cannon could travel a long distance, and there might be no rain at the points from which the firing came.  The cottage might stand in a long narrow valley up which the clouds would travel.