Some attempt seemed to have been made to clear the wards, but thosewhose task it had been had not had time to do more than drag thedead out into the passage.

The soldiers were now at work in the lower passage. Carts began toarrive. An officer told off to this dread duty came up hurriedlysmoking a cigarette, his high fur collar about his ears. He glancedat Louis, and bowed to him.

"Looking for some one?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then stand here beside me. It is I who have to keep count. Theysay there are eight thousand inside here. They will be carried pasthere to the carts. Have a cigarette."

It is hard to talk when the thermometer registers more than twentydegrees of frost, for the lips stiffen and contract into wrinkleslike the lips of a very very aged woman. Perhaps neither of the watcherswas in the humour to begin an acquaintance.

They stood side by side, stamping their feet to keep the bloodgoing, without speaking. 0nce or twice Louis stepped forward, andat a signal from the officer the bearers stopped. But Louis shookhis head, and they passed on. At midday the officer was relieved,his place being taken by another, whom bowed stiffly to Louis andtook no more notice of him. For war either hardens or softwelves. Itnever leaves a man as it found him.

All day the work was carried on. Through the hours this processionof the bearded dead went silently by. At the invitation of asergeant, Louis took some soup and goat cheese from the soldiers' table.The men laughingly apologized for the quality of both.

Towards night the officer who had first come on duty returned tohis work.

"Not yet?" he asked, offering the inevitable cigarette.