A little later, when Private Christy found his assistant asleep by the kitchen table, he took her last pans from the oven and sat down opposite her. The night was quiet, and again there came to the ear of the listener the strange, half-defined suggestion of men marching. Private Christy ate quickly; once he interrupted his feast to go upstairs in answer to a groan. His return woke Emmeline, who lifted her head from the table and looked at him sleepily from blinking, dark-rimmed eyes.
"We've got 'em all fixed up pretty comfortable," said Private Christy softly, as if he and Emmeline had succeeded in some common task. "Now, Emmyline, it's time for you to go to bed."
"Is the battle over?" asked Emmeline.
"No, sissy."
Emmeline's mouth quivered. "Do men like to fight?" she asked, blinking drowsily.
"Like to fight?" repeated Private Christy. "Like to fight, Emmyline? Like layin' up there with arms and legs ruined? Like livin' their days without half a body? Of course they don't like it!"
"Will there be more wounds to-morrow?" asked Emmeline stupidly.
"Where there's fighting, there's wounds."
"Will it last after to-morrow?"
"God help us, no!" said Private Christy.