"It is the guns," muttered the soldier, shivering. "It is the guns
around Verdun! Those damned Boches!"
He turned back into the thicket and dropped among the ferns beside
the spring. Stretching himself with a gesture of abandon, he
pillowed his face on his crossed arms to sleep.
A rustling in the bushes roused him. He sprang to his feet quickly.
It was a priest, clad in a dusty cassock, his long black beard
streaked with gray. He came slowly treading up beside the trickling
rivulet, carrying a bag on a stick over his shoulder.
"Good morning, my son," he said. "You have chosen a pleasant spot
to rest."
The soldier, startled, but not forgetting his manners learned from
boyhood, stood up and lifted his hand to take off his cap. It was
already lying on the ground. "Good morning, Father," he answered,
"I did not choose the place, but stumbled on it by chance. It is
pleasant enough, for I am very tired and have need of sleep."
"No doubt," said the priest. "I can see that you look weary, and
I beg you to pardon me if I have interrupted your repose.
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