"You see," he confesses timidly, "Henriot and I have just heard that the 24th is to attack, and so we simply left the letters to look after themselves. We thought you might not be pleased; but then, really, we had not the heart to remain behind." Henriot the taciturn screws up his courage to add a final sentence-- "We could not leave our mates to be killed all by themselves." Then a harsh voice is heard saying-- "It's all very fine to come along and get killed with one's comrades. But if you fall, there will be no one to attend to the correspondence. And once more our letters will be left lying about anywhere! You've thought only of yourselves in the whole matter." At seven o'clock the 24th retires to the grotto to sleep. _Sunday, 8th November._ Sabbath rest until five in the evening. Evidently there is to be an attack. Instead of returning to our huts in the wood, we follow the path leading to Crouy alongside of our former trenches. At half-past six firing is heard; our infantry are beginning the assault. Violent cannonade on both sides. Lights flash through the dark sky. Lying on our backs, with rifle within reach, we wait for the shells to fall in our small corner. We chat and laugh to make the time pass more pleasantly. I exchange with Reymond a few confidential remarks, justified by the impending danger. Some one on all-fours pulls me by the sleeve. It is Belin, and he wears a most serious look. Belin is no longer our corporal, alas! he was appointed sergeant to the 21st last month. "Ah! It's you, is it?" "Well!" "Listen, I have news for you." We twist round, and with heads touching one another, Belin continues-- "This is very serious. The captain has just called together the heads of the sections and explained to them the mission on which he is sending our two companies. The engineers are going to destroy with melinite the German barbed-wire; they are to be protected by two patrols of eight men each." "Well?" "Then the 21st and the 24th will attack the trench." "Not a bad programme," remarks Reymond, filling his pipe. "I don't consider it one bit reasonable," says Belin gravely. "We shall all be demolished." Silence. Reymond lights his pipe, his head buried in the lap of my coat, so that the flash from his flint may not be seen. "I came straight away to warn you," adds Belin. "Very good of you, old fellow, to think of us. But what can we do in the matter?" "Nothing at all." "Shall we tell the others?" "No, indeed! I mentioned the matter to you because you are old friends. But you must not utter a word to the rest; it would only make them uneasy." This reflection on the part of the sly old fellow makes us quite proud. A grasp of the hand in the dark, a muttered word of thanks, and Belin glides away as noiselessly as he came. "Maxence, Verrier!" we call out softly. "What is it?" "Come here!" On their approach we give them the news. They merit such confidence just as much as we do.