At last we reached our destination, and came to life again. A camp was ready to receive us--a camp so new and fresh we thought it almost elegant. There were Adrian barracks[G] of unpainted spruce, with water for drinking and water for washing; with coffee prepared, fresh bread, hot soup, and abundance of clean straw. We knew that the horrible inferno was at an end for us; at evening a train would take us each to his own family to enjoy a furlough. To come out of the abyss of hell and arrive at his own hearthside is an emotion too deep for a mortal man. He knows not if he is living in reality or in a dream. He goes on mechanically. He is hairy, barbarous, dirty, hideous. He is black, and torn, and bruised, and ragged. He reeks of powder, blood, and earth. He trembles. He is conscious of a sensation of joy--he feels it without comprehending it. Before long the train will be in the station. His wife will be there with his mother, his father, and others who are dear. They will take him in their arms. They will hold him, they will press him to their hearts. He will feel the sweet thrill of their touch; he will receive their caresses, will hear the familiar voices. His heart beats fast. A feeling of faintness sweeps over him; he puts his hand before his eyes. He speaks to his neighbor. He laughs. He drinks a little, he smokes. He suddenly feels smothered. It must be his great-coat which bothers him; he pulls it off. He holds imaginary conversations with himself. He gesticulates. He recounts what he has seen, what he has done, what he has said; the death of his comrades, the frightful wounds of his dearest friends. He strives to classify his recollections; he yawns, he gives it up. The battle still crowds his brain, obsesses him, holds him, fills his entire consciousness. The other men are like himself. Some laugh, some sing, some sleep. The special train rolls away--passes stations, traverses pleasant country, arrives at towns, whistles, snorts, runs smoothly, flies over the rails, carries him on and on. The man is dumb with amazement: a field where reapers are binding the grain enchants him; a glimpse of a garden where a woman is hanging up washing moves him to tenderness. A house intact astonishes him. The panorama passes before his window, is gone, is repeated. It is not yet the country, the province, where he was born, but that is approaching. Familiar names are seen at the stopping-places along the track. In an hour the train will reach his station. He can no longer sit still. He rises, fusses with his clothing, sits down, gets up again. The train no longer is going fast enough. It is stopping. What for? Now it goes again. Good. There it is stopping again! This is deadly. Villainous train! Villainous trip! Villainous life!