The artillery is still silent, and without a doubt the enemy has given up the stroke he was preparing. He was counting on the usual morning mist of the Somme, but this morning the air is very clear without a suspicion of fog. A fresh breeze blows from the north. As we wait for the hour of relief, we talk, and an interminable game of cards goes on. During the dark dreary days of forced seclusion in the bottom of the sap I discovered a very fine fellow, one of our comrades whom I had not had occasion to notice until then. He was very simple, talked but little, lived by himself, and I did not know his name. Chance placed us side by side and permitted me to engage him in conversation. Under a rough, taciturn appearance I found a soul full of kindness, a life touched by sacrifice, kindly, modest, the heroism of the humble who live simply for their long, hard tasks without complaining and without anyone being able to pity them in their sorrow and lighten their burdens. One night—was it night?—hermetically sealed in the deep sap, lighted only by the wavering light of scanty candles, all our hours were nocturnal. Without the irregular arrival of supply parties we would have been absolutely ignorant of the flight of time. One night, when the bombardment seemed to reach the final height of violence, when each blow shook our dugout, and the props groaned and threatened to yield—it would have been a merciless burial—our looks crossed and I read in his eyes a deep sorrow. In spite of my natural reserve, out of respect to his deep suffering I was unable to contain myself long. “Comrade,” I said, “I read in your looks a great sorrow.” He seemed to come back to reality when he heard my voice! “Fate has placed us near each other for some days. We don’t know what to-morrow may bring. Can’t I be of some use? Aid you in any way? Tell me!” His eyes tried to smile a thanks. I saw his lips contract and then came tears, and before I could say anything he leaned his head on my shoulder and wept deeply. It was not weakness, despair, or fear, but the unbridling of a heart shut up too long, the great gasp of a soul heavy with mental sorrows which might at last open itself, the gentle rain which brought the stifling storm of the nerves to an end. He confided his life history to me in a few words. He was a simple artisan of the laboring class, and his life had been full of grief and sorrow. After some years of struggles, and cares and stress together with his beloved companion, a daughter was born. But in coming into the world she took the life of her mother. And then he found himself alone in the world with this puny frail creature, born in grief and raised in sorrow.