“He risks too far,” grumbled his captain.  “He has been captured at last.  I always knew they would get him, one night.”

But that was not the night.  At one o’clock there was suddenly a sound of lamentation in the front trench of the French on that sector.  The soldiers who were sleeping crawled out of their holes in the sides of the trench walls, and crowded around the zigzag, narrow way and rubbed their eyes and listened to the laughter of officers and soldiers on duty.  There was Hirondelle, solemn as a church, yet with a dancing light in his eyes.  There, around him, crowded as sheep to a shepherd, twenty figures in German uniform stood with hands up and wet tears running down pasty cheeks.  And they were fat, it was noticeable that all of them were bulging of figure beyond even the German average.  They wailed “Kamerad!  Gut Kamerad!” in a chorus that was sickening to the plucky poilu make-up.  Hirondelle, interrogated of many, kept his lips shut till the first excitement quieted.  Then:  “I report to my colonel,” he stated, and finally he and his twenty were led back to the winding trench and the colonel was waked to receive them.  This was what had happened:  Hirondelle had wandered about, mostly on his stomach, through the darkness and peril of No Man’s Land, enjoying himself heartily; when suddenly he missed his companions and realized that he had had no sign of them for some time.  That did not trouble him.  He explained to the colonel that he felt “more free.”  Also that if he pulled off a success he would have “more glory.”  After two hours of this midnight amusement, in deadly danger every second, Hirondelle heard steps.  He froze to the earth, as he had learned from wild things in North American forests.  The steps came nearer.  A star-shell away down the line lighted the scene so that Hirondelle, motionless on the ground, all keen eyes, saw two Germans coming toward him.  Instantly he had a scheme.  In a subdued growl, yet distinctly, he threw over his shoulder an order that eight men should go to the right and eight to the left.  Then, on his feet, he sent into the darkness a stern “Halt!” Instantly there was a sputter, arms thrown up, the inevitable “Kamerad!” and Hirondelle ordered the first German to pass him, then a second.  Out of the darkness emerged a third.  Hirondelle waved him on, and with that there was a fourth.  And a fifth.  Behold a sixth.  About then Hirondelle judged it wise to give more orders to his imaginary squad of sixteen.  But such a panic had seized this German mob; that little acting was necessary.  Dark figure followed dark figure out of the darker night—­arms up.  They whimpered as they came, and on and on they came out of shadows.  Hirondelle stated that he began to think the Crown Prince’s army was surrendering to him.  At last, when the procession stopped, he—­and his mythical sixteen—­marched the entire covey, without any objection from them, only abject obedience, to the French trenches.