lanche? quand l'aurore se leve avec les couleurs d'une rose et
l'odeur d'une jeune fille lavee et parfumee. Pretty good that, eh,
what? But the fact remains that unless I find my steed, my charger,
my war-horse, which in reality does not belong to me at all, because I
pinched it from the colonel, I shall be shot as sure as fate, and, alas!
I do not want to die. I am too young to die, and meanwhile I desire
encore une bouteille de champagne!"

The little crowd of citizens found a grim humor in this speech,
one-third of which they understood. They laughed coarsely, and a man
said:

"Quel drole de type! Quel numero!"

But the woman who had touched me on the sleeve spoke to me again.

"He says he has lost his horse and will be shot as a deserter. Those
things happen. My boy in the Argonne tells me that a comrade of his was
shot for hiding five days with his young woman. It would be sad if this
poor child should be condemned to death."

I pushed my way through the crowd and went up to the officer.

"Can I help at all?"

He greeted me warmly, as though he had known me for years.

"My dear old pal, you can indeed! First of all I want a bottle of
champagne-une bouteille de champagne-" it was wonderful how much music
he put into those words--"and after that I want my runaway horse, as I
have explained to these good people who do not understand a bloody word,
in spite of my excellent French accent. I stole the colonel's horse to
come for a joy-ride to Amiens. The colonel is one of the best of men,
but very touchy, very touchy indeed. You would be surprised. He also has
the worst horse in the world, or did, until it ran away half an hour
ago into the blackness of this hell which men call Amiens. It is quite
certain that if I go back without that horse most unpleasant things will
happen to a gallant young British officer, meaning myself, who with most
innocent intentions of cleansing his soul from the filth of battle, from
the horror of battle, from the disgusting fear of battle--oh yes, I've
been afraid all right, and so have you unless you're a damned hero or
a damned liar--desired to get as far as this beautiful city (so fair
without, so foul within!) in order to drink a bottle, or even two or
three, of rich, sparkling wine, to see the loveliness of women as they
trip about these pestilential streets, to say a little prayer in la
cathedrale, and then to ride back, refreshed, virtuous, knightly, all
through the quiet nig