Enter SIR JOHN MOORE and officers. MOORE appears on the pale evening light as a handsome man, far on in the forties, the orbits of his dark eyes showing marks of deep anxiety. He is talking to some of his staff with vehement emphasis and gesture. They cross the scene and go on out of sight, and the squashing of their horses' hoofs in the snowy mud dies away.] FIFTH DESERTER [incoherently in his sleep] Poise fawlocks--open pans--right hands to pouch--handle ca'tridge-- bring it--quick motion-bite top well off--prime--shut pans--cast about--load--- FIRST DESERTER [throwing a shoe at the sleeper] Shut up that! D'ye think you are a 'cruity in the awkward squad still? SECOND DESERTER I don't know what he thinks, but I know what I feel! Would that I were at home in England again, where there's old-fashioned tipple, and a proper God A'mighty instead of this eternal 'Ooman and baby; --ay, at home a-leaning against old Bristol Bridge, and no questions asked, and the winter sun slanting friendly over Baldwin Street as 'a used to do! 'Tis my very belief, though I have lost all sure reckoning, that if I were there, and in good health, 'twould be New Year's day about now. What it is over here I don't know. Ay, to- night we should be a-setting in the tap of the “Adam and Eve”-- lifting up the tune of “The Light o' the Moon.” 'Twer a romantical thing enough. 'A used to go som'at like this [he sings in a nasal tone]:-- “O I thought it had been day, And I stole from here away; But it proved to be the light o' the moon!” [Retreat continues, with infantry in good order. Hearing the singing, one of the officers looks around, and detaching a patrol enters the ruined house with the file of men, the body of soldiers marching on. The inmates of the cellar bury themselves in the straw. The officer peers about, and seeing no one prods the straw with his sword. VOICES [under the straw] Oh! Hell! Stop it! We'll come out! Mercy! Quarter! [The lurkers are uncovered.] OFFICER If you are well enough to sing bawdy songs, you are well enough to march. So out of it--or you'll be shot, here and now! SEVERAL You may shoot us, captain, or the French may shoot us, or the devil may take us; we don't care which! Only we can't stir. Pity the women, captain, but do what you will with us! [The searchers pass over the wounded, and stir out those capable of marching, both men and women, so far as they discover them. They are pricked on by the patrol. Exeunt patrol and deserters in its charge. Those who remain look stolidly at the highway. The English Rear- guard of cavalry crosses the scene and passes out. An interval. It grows dusk.] SPIRIT IRONIC Quaint poesy, and real romance of war! SPIRIT OF THE PITIES