Later, in the monotony of trench warfare, he had time to think of Hazelton. He desired two things—to serve France, and to see Hazelton. Raoul wanted a word of friendship to pass between them, and especially he wanted to tell Hazelton that he need not worry about his wife. He wrote to him, but got no answer. Life went on; war had become the normal thing. The complexities of his former life receded further and further from him, and became more phantasmal, but the desire to see Hazelton before either of them should die remained with Raoul. When he was wounded it was his last conscious thought before oblivion engulfed him. There followed a half-waking—pain—a penumbral land through which shapes moved vaguely; the smell of an anesthetic, an awakening, and again sleep. When he wakened fully he was in a white hospital ward with a sister bending over him. “In the next bed,” she said, “there is a _grand blessé_.” She looked at him significantly. “He wishes to speak to you—he is a friend of yours.” In the next bed lay Hazelton, the startling black of his shaggy hair framing the pallor of his face. With difficulty Raoul raised his head. They smiled at each other. From the communion of their silence came Hazelton’s deep voice. “Why the devil,” he said, “did we ever hate each other?” Raoul shook his head. He didn’t know. He, too, had wanted to ask Hazelton this. “It has bothered me,” said Hazelton. “I wanted to see you—” His voice trailed off. “I’ve wanted to ask you why we have needed this war—death—to make us know we don’t hate each other.” “I don’t know,” said De Vilmarte. It was an effort for him to speak; his voice sounded frail and broken. “Raoul,” Hazelton asked, tenderly, “where are you wounded? Is it bad?” “I don’t know,” Raoul answered again. “It’s his head,” the sister answered for him, “and his right hand.” Hazelton raised his great head; a red mounted to his face; his old sardonic laughter boomed out through the ward. With a sharply indrawn breath of pain: “Oh, la—la!” he shouted. “_’Cré nom! ’Cré nom!_ What luck—imperishable! I’m dying—your right hand—your _right_ hand!” He sank back, his ironic laughter drowned in a swift crimson tide. The nurse beckoned to an orderly to bring a screen.... Tears of grief and weakness streamed down Raoul’s face. To the last his ill luck had held. He hadn’t been able to make his friend understand, or to make amends. His right hand was wounded, and he could no longer serve France. The sister looked at him with pity. She tried to console him. “Death is not always so mercifully quick with these strong men,” she said. THE WHITE BATTALION _By_ FRANCES GILCHRIST WOOD From _The Bookman_ _Copyright, 1918, by Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc._ _Copyright, 1919, by Frances Gilchrist Wood._