“Lucky?” replied another. “Well, perhaps. As for me, I confess it frankly, if I could choose I would rather go and brave the typhus than our French 75’s. You have not yet seen them at work, it is true; you don’t know anything about it. But your comrades must have spoken of them to you. Ah, you will quickly learn to recognise their ‘boom, boom,’ and you will give me news of them. May I be hanged if you return whole.” The sentinel, with a frightened air, looked at them one after another. Yes, certainly he had heard of the 75. His comrades had told him enough of the ravages it made. Only the other day the _Cologne Gazette_ had said that such weapons ought to be forbidden, that the 75 was an engine of the devil, that it was inhuman to make use of it. “Come, don’t you Germans speak of inhuman things, when you have ravaged Belgium with fire and sword; when you have sunk ships that carried peaceful citizens--women, children and old men; when you have invented asphyxiating gas!” For the first time, no doubt, the Boche had a feeling of pity in his heart for the innocent victims that war has cut down. He shook his head sadly and exclaimed: “Das ist traurig.” For the first time the Boche saw Belgium in flames, its women and children tortured and assassinated, the peaceful ships sunk on the high seas and their innocent charges the prey of the waves. He heard the heart-rending cries of mothers, the moans of the children whose hands had been cut off, and who, mad with fright and pain, and weeping bitterly, looked at the bleeding stumps. For the first time he was ashamed of his nation. In order to quiet his German conscience he, in his turn, tried to reproach the French for crimes committed by them and their allies. Perhaps also he hoped that the prisoners, by denials, would calm the terror that the name of “Moroccan” called up in his heart. “With you,” said he, half aggressively, “you have negroes who are terrible, so one says. They are barbarians.” If he expected to be reassured he was cruelly deceived. With an indifferent air the interpreter answered him: “Ah yes, the Moroccans; yes, indeed, they don’t take prisoners! What can one do? It is their law. But you know they only slay the combatants, they have never raised their hand against civilians. Their savagery is excusable, for they have not ... what do you call it?... Kultur. If they cut off your head, be sure it is not from cruelty, but simply because their priests have taught them that a man is not dead so long as he has his head on his shoulders. What one has difficulty in understanding in a European, a German, for example, one excuses in a negro, because he is not civilised. For my part, and I am sure you are of the same opinion, I don’t see any harm in a Moroccan cutting off your head when you are dead or even wounded.” The Boche shuddered. Did he feel at that moment the cold steel piercing his flesh? He did not say.