of God. With
an even voice he gave his name and sent a last passionately loving
message to one he loved. Then while the boys still doggedly strove to
stay his passing, he began to speak. His voice changed to the shrill,
clear tones of childhood. He forgot the sonorous Latin of a moment
past. He looked up and folded his hands.

"Mary, Mother, meek and mild,
Hear me, then a little child--"

He went on with the childish prayer. Velo stood up. Zaidos, kneeling,
shook his head, waited until the voice trailed into silence, and folded
his kit. They had come too late. The priest stood for a moment in
prayer. The boys moved on, but Zaidos looked back. He was just in
time to see the priest, with that strange look of wonder dawning on his
face, sink slowly to his knees, and droop across the dead man's breast.
A bullet was in his heart.

"I wish it would end," cried Zaidos passionately.

Velo smiled.

"Don't do that!" cried Zaidos wildly. "You are not half tending to
your work. Get busy with this man here." He knelt beside a soldier as
he spoke, and tried to change his position so he could tie up a gushing
wound. Zaidos, who had done all the heavy work, was almost exhausted.
His hands trembled a little. Time had rushed by, or else it had stood
perfectly still since the first shot split the morning stillness. He
had not eaten; he couldn't. On one of the trips with the heavy
stretcher the doctor had given him something in a glass to take, but he
had put it down for a moment, and Velo had spilled it. It had not
seemed worth while to ask for more.

The battle roared around them. The enemy had pressed through the first
wire entanglement, and a terrific hand-to-hand conflict was in
progress. Then men charged with bayonet on gun in the right hand, a
short, keen knife in their teeth, and on their left hands a band set
with spiked steel knuckles. They leaped into the trenches, struck once
with the bayonet, let the musket go, and continued the fight with knife
and knuckles. The boys seemed to be the center of a horrible whirlpool
or eddy of fighting.

"Give me a bandage!" screamed Zaidos.

Velo, all unconscious of the battle about, stood looking down at
Zaidos. His bloodshot eyes were narrowed to slits, his lips drawn back
in a wolfish snarl. In his hand was a revolver. He leaned forward a
little. He spoke, but in the din Zaidos could not hear his words. He
could read the twisting lips, however.