st two days, and the bucket
brought up nothing save mud and slime. Their sole resource appeared to
be the water of the Meuse, which was parted from them by the road.

"I'll take the kettle and go and fill it," said Jean.

The others objected.

"No, no! We don't want to be poisoned; it is full of dead bodies!"

They spoke the truth. The Meuse was constantly bringing down corpses
of men and horses; they could be seen floating with the current at any
moment of the day, swollen and of a greenish hue, in the early stages
of decomposition. Often they were caught in the weeds and bushes on the
bank, where they remained to poison the atmosphere, swinging to the tide
with a gentle, tremulous motion that imparted to them a semblance of
life. Nearly every soldier who had drunk that abominable water had
suffered from nausea and colic, often succeeded afterward by dysentery.
It seemed as if they must make up their mind to use it, however, as
there was no other; Maurice explained that there would be no danger in
drinking it after it was boiled.

"Very well, then; I'll go," said Jean. And he started, taking Lapoulle
with him to carry the kettle.

By the time they got the kettle filled and on the fire it was quite
dark. Loubet had peeled the beets and thrown them into the water to
cook--a feast fit for the gods, he declared it would be--and fed the
fire with fragments of the wheelbarrow, for they were all suffering so
from hunger that they could have eaten the meat before the pot began to
boil. Their huge shadows danced fantastically in the firelight on the
rocky walls of the quarry. Then they found it impossible longer to
restrain their appetite, and threw themselves upon the unclean mess,
tearing the flesh with eager, trembling fingers and dividing it among
them, too impatient even to make use of the knife. But, famishing as
they were, their stomachs revolted; they felt the want of salt, they
could not swallow that tasteless, sickening broth, those chunks of
half-cooked, viscid meat that had a taste like clay. Some among them
had a fit of vomiting. Pache was very ill. Chouteau and Loubet heaped
maledictions on that infernal old nag, that had caused them such trouble
to get him to the pot and then given them the colic. Lapoulle was the
only one among them who ate abundantly, but he was in a very bad
way that night when, with his three comrades, he returned to their
resting-place under the poplars by the canal.

On their way ba