king laces out of mine, eh?"
He gave a wheezy, coughing laugh.
     "I guess I'll take a pair. How much are they?"
     "Six sous."
     "Good."
     The  coins glinted in the light of the  candle  as  they clinked in the
man's leather-blackened palm.
     "Good-bye,"  said  Martin. He walked past men sleeping in  the bunks on
either side as he went towards the steps.
     At the end of the dugout the man crouched on  his pile  of old leather,
with his knife that glinted in the candlelight dexterously carving laces out
of the boots of those who no longer needed them.



        Chapter XI


     THERE  is no sound in  the  poste de  secours. A  faint greenish  light
filters down  from the  quiet  woods  outside. Martin is  kneeling beside  a
stretcher where lies a mass of torn blue uniform crossed  in  several places
by  strips  of white  bandages  clotted with  dark blood.  The massive face,
grimed with mud, is  very waxy and grey. The light hair hangs in clots about
the forehead. The  nose is sharp, but there is a faint smile  about the lips
made thin by pain.
     "Is  there  anything  I  can get you?" asks  Martin  softly. "Nothing."
Slowly the blue eyelids uncover hazel eyes that burn feverishly.
     "But you haven't told me yet, how's Merrier?"
     "A shell . . . dead . . . poor chap."
     "And the anarchist, Lully?"
     "Dead."
     "And Dubois?"
     "Why ask?" came the faint rustling voice peevishly.  "Everybody's dead.
You're dead, aren't you?"
     "No, I'm alive, and you. A little courage. . . . We must be cheerful."
     "It's not for long. To-morrow,  the  next day. . .  ." The blue eyelids
slip back over the crazy burning eyes  and the face takes on again the waxen
look of death.