Maxence and myself occupy the dug-out from eight till midnight. We smoke a few pipes. The post has brought newspapers. Our accoutrements hang on nails driven into the timber which props up the shelter. Maxence, who has been somewhat fidgety for some minutes, remarks-- "I don't care! I'm going to put on my socks; it will be far more comfortable." "And suppose the lieutenant comes along.... And what if the Germans attack?" "Eh?" He hesitates, his hand on the point of unrolling his puttee. "Nonsense! Those over in front won't stir an inch." I succeed in persuading him not to remove his boots. Well wrapped in our coverings, we talk before going to sleep. I am interrupted by an exclamation in the trench-- "The Germans are in the branch trench! Look out!" We spring to our accoutrements and arms. A hundred yards to the right a brisk fusillade is going on. "Who was it shouted, 'Look out!'?" "A man of the fourth section, the one on guard at the listening post," placidly answers Verrier, who has already fixed his bayonet to his rifle, though retaining his cigarette between his lips. "Well! Where are the Germans? There is nothing to be heard!" We begin to scent one of those tragi-comic incidents frequent in warfare. The lieutenant passes, an electric lamp in hand. As he strides away towards the right, he gives the order-- "Everybody at the loop-holes!" The command is obeyed. In half an hour's time he returns. "Well! What was the matter?" Thereupon, half-smiling, and half-angry, he relates-- "It was a German patrol that had taken the wrong direction. Our sentry was watching, sheltered by a tarpaulin stretched across two pieces of wood. He hears the sound of voices and heavy steps, and, crash! something splits the tarpaulin and falls with a howl on to his shoulders. It was a German! Stupefied, the sentry calls out: 'To arms!' Everybody comes rushing from the shelters, and there is a fine uproar. Meanwhile, the German scales the parapet and clears off. The patrol had already disappeared." When the lieutenant has gone, we make our way through the three or four hundred yards of deserted, winding branches to visit the heroes of the adventure. They look very shamefaced. The corporal seems uneasy. "Do you think the lieutenant will give me the lock-up for this?" Indignantly he adds-- "But what fools they were to come along here! Is that the way an enemy patrol goes to work?" Evidently, if the enemy in future approaches our lines without taking the usual precautions, he will no longer be playing the game! The sentry especially has a very sickly look. "Why didn't you stick your bayonet into the fool of a German?" some one asks. "My bayonet was sheathed. Do you fix your bayonet when on sentry duty in the trench? It's only in the illustrated papers that you find such silly things!"