ates with a
morsel of bread. "Tiens, the sun's going!" It is true; a cloud has
passed over and hidden it. "It's going to splash, my little lads," says
Lamuse "that's our luck all over! Just as we are going off!"

"A damned country!" says Fouillade. In truth this Northern climate is
not worth much. It drizzles and mizzles, reeks and rains. And when
there is any sun it soon disappears in the middle of this great damp
sky.

Our four days in the trenches are finished, and the relief will
commence at nightfall. Leisurely we get ready for leaving. We fill and
put aside the knapsacks and bags. We give a rub to the rifles and wrap
them up.

It is already four o'clock. Darkness is falling quickly, and we grow
indistinct to each other. "Damnation. Here's the rain!" A few drops and
then the downpour. Oh, la, la, la! We don our capes and tent-cloths. We
go back unto the dug-out, dabbling, and gathering mud on our knees,
hands, and elbows, for the bottom of the trench is getting sticky. Once
inside, we have hardly time to light a candle, stuck on a bit of stone,
and to shiver all round--"Come on, en route!"

We hoist ourselves into the wet and windy darkness outside. I can dimly
see Poterloo's powerful shoulders; in the ranks we are always side by
side. When we get going I call to him, "Are you there, old
chap?"--"Yes, in front of you," he cries to me, turning round. As he
turns he gets a buffet in the face from wind and rain, but he laughs.
His happy face of the morning abides with him. No downpour shall rob
him of the content that he carries in his strong and steadfast heart;
no evil night put out the sunshine that I saw possess his thoughts some
hours ago.

We march, and jostle each other, and stumble. The rain is continuous,
and water runs in the bottom of the trench. The floor-gratings yield as
the soil becomes soaked; some of them slope to right or left and we
skid on them. In the dark, too, one cannot see them, so we miss them at
the turnings and put our feet into holes full of water.

Even in the grayness of the night I will not lose sight of the slaty
shine of Poterloo's helmet, which streams like a roof under the
torrent, nor of the broad back that is adorned with a square of
glistening oilskin. I lock my step in his, and from time to time I
question him and he answers me--always in good humor, always serene and
strong.

When there are no more of the wooden floor-gratings, we tramp in the
thick mud. It is dark no