“A little while ago a division started marching on Paris.... And when I was in Verdun.... O there will be a revolution.... France is the country of revolutions.” “We'll always be here to shoot you down,” said Eisenstein. “Wait till you've been in the war a little while. A winter in the trenches will make any army ready for revolution.” “But we have no way of learning the truth. And in the tyranny of the army a man becomes a brute, a piece of machinery. Remember you are freer than we are. We are worse than the Russians!” “It is curious!... O but you must have some feeling of civilization. I have always heard that Americans were free and independent. Will they let themselves be driven to the slaughter always?” “O I don't know.” Eisenstein got to his feet. “We'd better be getting to barracks. Coming, Fuselli?” he said. “Guess so,” said Fuselli indifferently, without getting up. Eisenstein and the Frenchman went out into the shop. “Bon swar,” said Fuselli, softly, leaning across the table. “Hey, girlie?” He threw himself on his belly on the wide table and put his arms round her neck and kissed her, feeling everything go blank in a flame of desire. She pushed him away calmly with strong little arms. “Stop!” she said, and jerked her head in the direction of the old woman in the chair in the dark corner of the room. They stood side by side listening to her faint wheezy snoring. He put his arms round her and kissed her long on the mouth. “Demain,” he said. She nodded her head. Fuselli walked fast up the dark street towards the camp. The blood pounded happily through his veins. He caught up with Eisenstein. “Say, Eisenstein,” he said in a comradely voice, “I don't think you ought to go talking round like that. You'll get yourself in too deep one of these days.” “I don't care!” “But, hell, man, you don't want to get in the wrong that bad. They shoot fellers for less than you said.” “Let them.” “Christ, man, you don't want to be a damn fool,” expostulated Fuselli. “How old are you, Fuselli?” “I'm twenty now.” “I'm thirty. I've lived more, kid. I know what's good and what's bad. This butchery makes me unhappy.” “God, I know. It's a hell of a note. But who brought it on? If somebody had shot that Kaiser.” Eisenstein laughed bitterly. At the entrance of camp Fuselli lingered a moment watching the small form of Eisenstein disappear with its curious waddly walk into the darkness. “I'm going to be damn careful who I'm seen goin' into barracks with,” he said to himself. “That damn kike may be a German spy or a secret-service officer.” A cold chill of terror went over him, shattering his mood of joyous self-satisfaction. His feet slopped in the puddles, breaking through the thin ice, as he walked up the road towards the barracks. He felt as if people were watching him from everywhere out of the darkness, as if some gigantic figure were driving him forward through the darkness, holding a fist over his head, ready to crush him.