"It's not good enough," he said. "You French-Canadians seem to think there's one law for yourselves and another for everybody else. You throw all your comrades down by deliberately insulting an officer--a staff-officer, who reports it to the G.O.C., and there you are. We're known as a bad battalion just because of a few slackers like you. Put him on the horse line picket for two nights, and confine him to camp during the day." The prisoner started. "Sair," he said, "I can no be here to-morrow night. _C'est impossible._" "Oh, is it emposeeble?" answered the officer, who prided himself on a gift of neat retort. Des Rosiers's eyes protruded to their utmost. "By Gar!" he cried, "and nex' morning we go back to the line _encore_, yes?" "Well? Have you any objections? If so, I am sure the divisional commander would appreciate hearing them." "Ah, but _monsieur l'officier_"--his hands were stretched forth in an agony of appeal--"Petite Simunde, she wait for me. I promise to come--I no come--it is terrible!" The judge in khaki laughed. "I am fed up with the stories of you French-Canadians and your village sweethearts--and, confound it, stop waving your hands about!" "Standt'attenshun!" bellowed the sergeant-major. "Consider yourself lucky to get off so lightly, my man.--That will do, sergeant-major." "Escor' a'prisoner--ri tuh--qui' mawch.--Lef' ri', lef' ri', lef' ri--Pawty, ha't.--Report to horse line N.C.O. right away.--Escor', dees-mi!" Rather late for mess, by reason of holding orderly room at an unusual hour, the company commander sat down to dinner with a glow of virtue in his bosom. He had been a lawyer-politician in a small Ontario town, and it pleased him to find that he had not lost the art of Buzfuzian browbeating. And through it all the Fates had woven a thread of tragedy about the life of Jacque Noir, using in their scheme of things a non-psychological staff-officer, a non-military and non-psychological company commander, and a sergeant whose name was Smith. "There is humor in all things," said Jack Point. Gilbert would have been equally correct if he had substituted the word "tragedy." Before sundown of the next day the prisoner was reported absent, and when the battalion marched away for the line Jacque Des Rosiers was not with it. VI Four days had passed before the second-in-command rejoined his unit in the trenches. Campbell had been held at Divisional Headquarters, and now for the first time learned of Des Rosiers's desertion. With a stiffening of the jaw and an ugly contraction of his shoulders, he quickly interrogated tragedy's mummers--a sergeant named Smith and a politician-lawyer company commander. To the former he said nothing; the man had done his obvious duty. To the company commander he gave a careful hearing; then, in short staccato sentences that had an odd resemblance to a machine-gun in action, subjected him to brief questioning. "What is Des Rosiers's conduct-sheet like?" "Pretty bad, sir."