stirred them. He felt them thoughtful and sad, and yet more unflinching,
stronger and keener for the inevitable day.

CHAPTER XXVII

The monstrous possibility that had consumed Kurt Dorn for many months at
last became an event--he had arrived on the battle-front in France.

All afternoon the company of United States troops had marched from far
back of the line, resting, as darkness came on, at a camp of reserves,
and then going on. Artillery fire had been desultory during this march;
the big guns that had rolled their thunder miles and miles were now
silent. But an immense activity and a horde of soldiers back of the
lines brought strange leaden oppression to Kurt Dorn's heart.

The last slow travel of his squad over dark, barren space and through
deep, narrow, winding lanes in the ground had been a nightmare ending to
the long journey. France had not yet become clear to him; he was a
stranger in a strange land; in spite of his tremendous interest and
excitement, all seemed abstract matters of his feeling, the plague of
himself made actuality the substance of dreams. That last day, the
cumulation of months of training and travel, had been one in which he
had observed, heard, talked and felt in a nervous and fevered
excitement. But now he imagined he could not remember any of it. His
poignant experience with the Blue Devils had been a reality he could
never forget, but now this blackness of subterranean cavern, this damp,
sickening odor of earth, this presence of men, the strange, muffled
sounds--all these were unreal. How had he come here? His mind labored
with a burden strangely like that on his chest. A different, utterly
unfamiliar emotion seemed rising over him. Maybe that was because he was
very tired and very sleepy. Sometime that night he must go on duty. He
ought to sleep. It was impossible. He could not close his eyes. An
effort to attend to what he was actually doing disclosed the fact that
he was listening with all his strength. For what? He could not answer
then. He heard the distant, muffled sounds, and low voices nearer, and
thuds and footfalls. His comrades were near him; he heard their
breathing; he felt their presence. They were strained and intense; like
him, they were locked up in their own prison of emotions.

Always heretofore, on nights that he lay sleepless, Dorn had thought of
the two things dearest on earth to him--Lenore Anderson and the golden
wheat-hills of his home. This night he