"Yes, we always grease our bayonets, you know. To prevent them getting rusty." He was a man of few words, but in three sentences he had given me a battle-picture as clearly visualised as a canvas of Verestchagin. The reminiscences of the plumber provoked the paperhanger to further recollections, more particularly the stunning effects of the French shell-fire. He had found four dead Germans--they had been surprised by a shell while playing cards in a billet. "They still had the cards in their hands, monsieur, just as you see us--and they hadn't got a scratch. They were like the statues in the Louvre." "Yes," said the _sous-officier_, "I have seen them like that. I remember I found a big Bosche--six feet four he must have been--sitting dead in a house which we had shelled. His face was just like wax, and he sat there like a wooden doll with his long arms hanging down stiff--yes! _comme une poupee_. And I couldn't find a scratch on him--not one! And do you know what he had on--a woman's chemise! _Ecoutez!_" he added suddenly, and he held up a monitory hand. Echoing down the corridor outside there came nearer and nearer the beat of a drum and with it the liquid notes of a fife. I recognised the measure--who can ever forget it! It stirs the blood like a trumpet. The door was kicked open and two convalescent soldiers entered, one wearing a festive cap of coloured paper such as is secreted in Christmas "crackers." He was playing a fife, and the drummer was close upon his heels. Every one rose in his bed and lifted up his voice: Allons! enfants de la Patrie! A strange electricity ran through us all. The card-players had thrown down their cards just as the plumber was about to trump an ace. The others had tossed aside their papers and laid down their cigarettes. The Turco--"Muley Hafid" he was called, because those were the only words of his any one could understand--who had been deploying imaginary troops, with the aid of matches, upon the counterpane, as though he were a sick child playing with leaden soldiers, recognised the tune, and in default of words began to beat time with a soup spoon. Up and down the passage way between the beds marched the fife and drum; louder beat the drum, more piercing grew the fife. What delirious joy-of-battle, what poignant cries of anguish, has not that immortal music both stirred and soothed! To what supremacy of effort has it not incited? It has succoured dying men with its _viaticum_. It has brought fire to glazing eyes. It has exalted men a little higher than the angels, it has won the angels to the side of men: Tout est soldat pour vous combattre: S'ils tombent, nos jeunes heros, La terre en produit de nouveaux Contre vous tout prets a se battre. Aux armes, citoyens! Formez vos bataillons: Marchons, qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons.