"I’ve went through worse than this. I ain’t hurted bad. I ain’t got mine just yet, old scout! Would I leave meself croak--an’ that bum, Mike the Kike, handin’ me fren’s the ha-ha! Gawd," he muttered hazily, as though his mind was beginning to cloud, "just f’r that I’ll get up an’--an’ go--home--" His voice flattened out and he lay silent. Working over the next man beyond him and glancing around now and then to discover a _brancardier_ who might take Duck to the rear, I presently caught his eyes fixed on me. "Say, Doc, will you talk--business?" he asked in a dull voice. "Be quiet, Duck, the bearers will be here in a minute or two----" "T’hell wit them guys! I’m askin’ you will you make it fifty-fifty--’r’ somethin’--" Again his voice trailed away, but his bright ratty eyes were indomitable. I was bloodily occupied with another patient when something struck me on the shoulder--a human hand, clutching it. Duck was sitting upright, eyes a-glitter, the other hand pressed heavily over his abdomen. "Fifty-fifty!" he cried in a shrill voice. "F’r Christ’s sake, Doc, talk business--" And life went out inside him--like the flame of a suddenly snuffed candle--while he still sat there.... I heard the air escaping from his lungs before he toppled over.... I swear to you it sounded like a whispered word--"business." ------------------ "Then came their gas--a great, thick, yellow billow of it pouring into our shell hole.... I couldn’t get my mask on fast enough ... and here I am, Gray, wondering, but really knowing.... Are you stopping at the Club tonight?" "Yes." Vail got to his feet unsteadily: "I’m feeling rather done in.... Won’t sit up any longer, I guess.... See you in the morning?" "Yes," said Gray. "Good-night, then. Look in on me if you leave before I’m up." ------------------ And that is how Gray saw him before he sailed--stopped at his door, knocked, and, receiving no response, opened and looked in. After a few moments’ silence he understood that the "Seed of Death" had sprouted. CHAPTER XIII MULETEERS Lying far to the southwest of the battle line, only when a strong northwest wind blew could Sainte Lesse hear the thudding of cannon beyond the horizon. And once, when the northeast wind had blown steadily for a week, on the wings of the driving drizzle had come a faint but dreadful odour which hung among the streets and lanes until the wind changed. Except for the carillon, nothing louder than the call of a cuckoo, the lowing of cattle or a goatherd’s piping ever broke the summer silence in the little town. Birds sang; a shallow river rippled; breezes ruffled green grain into long, silvery waves across the valley; sunshine fell on quiet streets, on scented gardens unsoiled by war, on groves and meadows, and on the stone-edged brink of brimming pools where washerwomen knelt among the wild flowers, splashing amid floating pyramids of snowy suds.