time to attend to us. For a few days, before my appetite began to
make itself felt, I enjoyed the rest and quiet, and slept most of the
time. But at the end of a week I began to get restless.

The Frenchman whose bed was next to mine fascinated me with his
piercing black eyes, unnaturally bright and glittering. I knew
the look in his eyes; I had seen it--after the battle--when the
wounded were coming in, and looked at us as they were carried by on
stretchers. Some had this look--some hadn't. Those who had it never
came back.

And sometimes before the fighting, when the boys were writing home,
the farewell letter that would not be mailed unless--"something
happened"--I've seen that look in their faces, and I knew... just as
they did... the letter would be mailed!

Emile, the Frenchman, had the look!

He was young, and had been strong and handsome, although his face was
now thin and pinched and bloodless, like a slum child's; but he hung
on to life pitifully. He hated to die--I knew that by the way he
fought for breath, and raged when he knew for sure that it was going
from him.

In the middle of his raging, he would lean over his bed and peer
into my face, crying "L'Anglaise--l'Anglaise," with his black eyes
snapping like dagger points. I often had to turn away and put my
pillow over my eyes.

But one afternoon, in the middle of it, the great silence fell on