Aurelle thought of the grey, smooth hair and fine features of the general, the gold and scarlet of his facings all soiled by the ignoble mud of battles. So much easy dignity, he thought, so much courteous authority, and to-morrow carrion, which the soldiers will trample under foot without knowing. But already, all round him, they were anxiously discussing who would be his successor. In the evening, he went over to the Lennox with the regiment that was going to relieve them. The first person he saw was the doctor, who was working in a dug-out. "I don’t think the regiment did badly," he said. "I have not seen the colonel yet, but all the men tell me he was a marvel of courage and presence of mind. It appears, messiou, that we have the record number of Germans killed by one man. Private Kemble bayoneted twenty-four. Not bad, is it?" "No," said Aurelle, "but it’s horrible. Have you looked at Warburton, doctor? I met him on the road and he seemed very bad." "Done for," said the doctor. "And his friend Gibbons died here this afternoon, both legs blown off." "Oh, Gibbons too. Poor Gibbons! Do you remember, doctor, his talking about his plump little wife? No doubt at this very moment she is playing tennis with her sisters in some lovely English garden. And the bleeding limbs of her husband are there, in that blanket. It’s terrible, doctor, all this." "Pooh!" answered the doctor, going to wash his hands, which were covered with blood. "In three months you will see her portrait in the _Tatler_: ’The beautiful widow of Captain Gibbons, M.C., who is shortly to be married to——’" *CHAPTER XV* The Lennox Highlanders, when the brigade was relieved, were sent for six days to a muddy field near Dickebusch. Dr. O’Grady and Aurelle shared a tent, and dined together, the first evening, at the inn of the _Trois Amis_. On their return, the stars shone brightly in a dark blue velvet sky. The soft moonlight lay on the grass of the meadows. A few tents in which a light was burning resembled great white lanterns; round the bivouac fires, blown about by the wind, the men sat swearing and singing. "War makes light of time," said the doctor, "it is eternal and unalterable. This camp might be Cæsar’s, the Tommies round their fires, talking of their wives and their dangers, their boots and their horses, like the legionaries of Fabius or the veterans of the Grand Army. And, as in those days, on the other side of the hill, repose the barbarous Germans by their unyoked chariots." The burgundy of the _Trois Amis_ inspired the doctor to hold forth like this.