For some moments we walked in a
bower of tender green. A last gleam of light, falling aslant across
the lane, made points of bright yellow among the foliage, and round
as gold coins. "This is pretty," I said.
He said nothing, but looked aside and hard. Then he stopped. "It
must be there."
He made me climb up a bit of a track to a field, a great quadrangle
within tall trees, and full of the scent of hay.
"Tiens!" I said, looking at the ground, "it's all trampled here;
there's been something to do."
"Come," said Suilhard to me. He led me into the field, not far from
its gate. There was a group of soldiers there, talking in low
voices. My companion stretched out his hand. "It's there," he said.
A very short post, hardly a yard high, was implanted a few paces
from the hedge, composed just there of young trees. "It was there,"
he said, "that they shot a soldier of the 204th this morning. They
planted that post in the night. They brought the chap here at dawn,
and these are the fellows of his squad who killed him. He tried to
dodge the trenches. During relief he stayed behind, and then went
quietly off to quarters. He did nothing else; they meant, no doubt,
to make an example of him."
We came near to the conversation of the others. "No. no, not at
all," said one. "He wasn't a ruffian, he wasn't one of those toughs
that we all know. We all enlisted together. He was a decent sort,
like ourselves, no more, no less--a bit funky, that's all.
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