Fitzgerald sat down on the firestep and sank into the soft mud. So complete was the stillness that he could distinctly hear all the varied sounds of the night mingling together in a long-drawn, slumberous murmur. The far-off death lullaby of a heavy shell, the soft, quivering croon of the damp wind, the sough of a boot as a soldier walked along the trench; the vague murmurings from a near dug-out, the enervating sizzle of falling rain, and the varied, indefinable night movements of Nature blended sleepily together in a slumber that made for nightmares and fevered dreams. Fitzgerald dozed off, only to wake in an instant by hearing voices speaking very close to him. "Spudhole, my rifle is full of dirt; half a sandbag of chalk has gone down the barrel," said the voice of Bowdy Benners. "Mine is full up o' muck, too," said Spudhole. There was an indifference in his tones. He seemed to have lost all interest in his best friend, his "'ipe." "I don't care a damn," he muttered. "A nipe's only made to be cleaned in this 'ere war as far as I can see." "When is the rum coming up?" Bowdy enquired. "Probably we'll get none to-night." "'S'up," said Bubb, "round the next bay in the dug-out." "Well, I'm off," said Bowdy. "I'm half frozen. I'm for a good tot if it's going.... By the way," he asked, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, "how many of our fellows were blown up by the mine this morning?" "Seven or eight," said Bubb, "or maybe more." "And to think that to-night's Christmas Eve," said Benners, as if the conversation had forcibly reminded him of the fact. The two men clambered over the top and made their way towards the dug-out from which the rum was issued. Fitzgerald got up and followed. As he crawled over the sandbags a starshell rose into the darkness and lit the scene of war. The country showed wet and livid, the barbed wire entanglements wound crookedly along the levels. The wires stretched out waiting for their prey with threatening barbs. In the brooding silence and the locality of war, Hate and Vengeance persisted, and were well in keeping with the ominous night, and here it seemed they found their most direct expression. Fitzgerald looked around, and queer, fragmentary thoughts rioted in his head. He remembered a verse of a song which he had once heard, and repeated it aloud. "Here comes I, Jack Straw; Such a man you never saw; Through a rock, through a reel, Through an old spinning-wheel, Through a mill hopper, through a bag of pepper; Sheep shanks, chicken bone-- Give me a kiss or leave me alone." "What has put this nonsense into my mind?" he asked himself. "Probably it is because it is part of a Christmas carol.... And this is Christmas eve.... Two thousand years gone by and the message of the Prince of Peace not made manifest yet.... Well, I wonder if the rum is waiting...?"