It was a desperate mass of wounds. But the men of his squad loved their corporal. He still breathed. They saw to it that he was carried back to the little transit hospital just behind the Fort de Souville. It was a rude hut of logs, covered with sand-bags, on the slope of the hill. The ruined woods around it were still falling to the crash of far-thrown shells. In the close, dim shelter of the inner room Pierre came to himself. He looked up into the face of Father Courcy. A light of recognition and gratitude flickered in his eyes. It was like finding an old friend in the dark. “Welcome!--But the fort?” he gasped. “It is ours,” said the priest. Something like a smile passed over the face of Pierre. He could not speak for a long time. The blood in his throat choked him. At last he whispered: “Tell Josephine--love.” Father Courcy bowed his head and took Pierre's hand. “Surely,” he said. “But now, my dear son Pierre, I must prepare you--” The struggling voice from the cot broke in, whispering slowly, with long intervals: “Not necessary.... I know already.... The penance. ... France.... Jeanned'Arc.... It is done.” A few drops of blood gushed from the corner of his mouth. The look of peace that often comes to those who die of gunshot wounds settled on his face. His eyes grew still as the priest laid the sacred wafer on his lips. The broken soldier was made whole. THE HEARING EAR There were three American boys from the region of Philadelphia in the dugout, “Somewhere in France”; and they found it a snug habitation, considering the circumstances. The central heating system--a round sheet-iron stove, little larger than a “topper” hat--sent out incredible quantities of acrid smoke at such times as the rusty stovepipe refused to draw. But on cold nights and frosty mornings the refractory thing was a distinct consolation. The ceiling of the apartment lacked finish. When wet it dropped mud; when dry, dust. But it had the merit of being twenty feet thick--enough to stop any German shell except a “Jack Johnson” full of high explosive. The beds were elegantly excavated in the wall, and by a slight forward inclination of the body you could use them as _fauteuils_. The rats approved of them highly. There were two flights of ladder-stairs leading down from the trench into the dugout, and the holes at the top which served as vestibules were three or four yards apart. It was a comfort to think of this architectural design; for if the explosion of a big shell blocked up one of the entrances, the other would probably remain open, and you would not be caught in a trap with the other rats.