“Three o’clock, Doctor,” replied the faithful Augustus; “an infantry platoon will come from his own regiment, which is at the moment leaving the firing line and is billeted at Morcourt.” “That’s right; send for Bénezech.” And we began to enjoy the piquancy of a cucumber salad. September was fading slowly, but the furnace on the Somme was getting ever fiercer. The roar of the cannon seemed to fill the immensity of the heavens, as if a great tragedy was happening in the heart of the world. We were slightly stupefied through having spent many nights without sleep--nights passed in trying to stem the torrent of blood, and save some of the wreckage that swept down with it. Lieutenant Limberg was one of the saddest cases: for two weeks we tried to drag him out of the swirling eddy, when, all of a sudden, he sank rapidly, attacked by virulent meningitis, stammering and uttering aloud fantastic things, which gave his death a monstrous atmosphere of comedy. Nothing gives greater offence or greater pain than to witness the torture and delirium suffered by men injured in the brain. How many times have I wished, when confronted with these terrible sights, that our indifferent rulers should be forced to look at them! But it is useless insisting on this. If people have no imagination, they can never learn. I had better go on with my tale. We were struggling with a tough piece of beef when Bénezech came in. The Abbé Bénezech, a second-grade hospital orderly, combined various functions, including those of a secretary and chaplain. He was a plump, slow-witted man, with a formidable jaw. He grew a large unkempt beard, and he badly felt the want of those cares and attentions which a devoted flock had showered on him. Much too holy a person to attach any importance to cares of the toilette, he had gradually degenerated into a slovenly old man. But it was with patience that he waited for his return to the sweet amenities of his living. “Bénezech,” said M. Gilbert, rather familiarly, “what time do you bury Lieutenant Limberg?” “Three o’clock, sir.” “The body has been taken out?” “It should be in the mortuary shed.” “Good! Was the lieutenant a Catholic?” “Oh! yes; he most certainly was, sir. Thank God! He took the sacrament yesterday.” “Then everything is all right. Thank you, Bénezech.” The chaplain went out. Relapsing again into our somnolent state, we returned to our unappetising dish of vermicelli. As we were finishing, an orderly came in and handed a card to M. Gilbert. “The officer,” he added, “insists on seeing you at once.” M. Gilbert repeatedly looked at the card with the strained attention of a man who feels he is falling asleep. “Oh! well,” he sighed; “show him in.” And he added, turning towards us: “Second Lieutenant David? Do you know him? You don’t?”