"Is he one of ours?" questioned a man from an upper window, stopping an instant in the act of polishing his gun.
"No," answers some one.
The enquirer recommenced his work, and with it the refrain of his song, just where he had left off.
"Sur les bords de la Riviera," sang he blithely.
Little groups formed along the wayside. Seated on the straw they finished their afternoon meal, touching mugs, and joking together. Near them the artillerymen greased and verified their axles; others brushed and curried the horses. In one spot a hair dresser had set up his tonsorial parlor in the open, and his customers formed in line awaiting their turns.
Further on the permissionaires blacked their boots and furbished their raiment, making ready to leave for home. Swarms of humming birds and bees clustered about a honeysuckle vine which clung to the fragments of a fence near by, and whose fragrance saturated the air.
The friend, whose regiment number we had recognised, and stopped to see, came up from behind and touched me on the shoulder.
"Well, of all things! What on earth are you doing here?"
We explained our mission, and then inquired about mutual acquaintances.
"Pistre? Why he's with the munitions in the 12xth. We'll go over and see him. It's not far. But hold on a minute, isn't Lorrain a friend of yours?"