The men were tired out and threw themselves on the filthy straw. They have slept nearly all day, and this evening in groups they try their hardest to organize a respectable meal from the means at their disposal. The wine flows from full canteens, and flasks of cheap brandy come out of the packs. The section leaders advise them to save some of their provisions for the next day. “To-morrow! What do you think? To-morrow we’ll lunch with the Boches. You! I’ll pay you in sauerkraut.” Conversation gradually grew less amid the falling darkness and the smoke of pipes. The silence became profound. The men are not sleeping. They think and remember. Sadness and worry hover about.... Far away, hesitating, a voice sings a prelude. But that voice is so pure and clear that it seems enormous, startling, vibrating in the dull numbness of men and things. Vigne is humming a song of Provence, a hymn to the sun, which from the banks of the Durance to the shores of the Latin sea, from the blue hills of the Alps to the golden flowers of Vacarès, the youths and maidens of Avignon, Arles, and Maillamne sing as they return to the hospitable farm from their labors, their hands entwined for the farandole, with eyes full of smiles and love for the bright sun which makes them live and love. _Grand souleù de la Provènço_ _Gai coumpaire doù mistrau_ _Tu qu’escoules la Durènço_ _Comme un flot de vin de Crau,_ _Fai lusi toun blound caleù!_ _Coucho l’oumbro emai li fleù!_ _Leù! leù! leù!_ _Fai te vèire, beù souleù!_ Vigne was sitting in a corner, elbows on his knees, chin between his hands, his face lifted, and singing unconsciously, his eyes on the distance. A candle stuck in the neck of a bottle throws a flickering light on the damp ground of the cellar, and scarcely separates his outlines from the darkness. Gradually one follows in, one after another, naturally, and they all begin to sing. And music and rhythm form so large a part of their natures that they form a wonderful choir where the thirds and minors take form instinctively without an effort, and where the dream of their homeland marks the time. And they sing from their souls, and through it all is the sun of their beautiful South, the poetry of their dawns, the charm of their twilights, the mystic gleams of the olives, the flight of the red flamingoes on the pools, the coming down of the shepherds from the perfumed hills, the mad career of the bulls in clouds of dust on the white roads of Camargue, the gold of the mimosas, the red of the wild poppies, the blue sky, the blue sea, the sun.... _Fai lusi...._ _Fai lusi toun blound caleù._ These soft voices, monotonous, hesitating a moment ago, which seemed scarcely awake, now sound out, vibrant, dashing, sonorous. They are no longer uprooted exiles who are stirred; it is a force, a crowd, a people whom the song of their birthplace awakes, draws together, cheers. It is Provence herself that sings.