The telephone bell rings continuously. Every one of the seventeen wires running to the switchboard is working. Horace is on the alert, his fingers as electric as the wires he is handling.
A growing nervousness runs through the lines, making the whole army tingle like a single human organism vibrant with life.
All the world is in activity or in readiness.
Medical troops pass by, carrying out the wounded from the bombardment.
An enemy patrol dashes forward to destroy the wire, knowing that it will never return alive. It is met by a storm of rifle-fire, but those who survive, cut. A hole is made. The last German falls.
A French patrol rushes out to mend the gap, throwing coils here and there and is, in its turn, wiped out by grenadiers.
The hateful eyes of searchlights peer over the zone of destruction. It is deserted—as yet.
What is that—a shout?
Midnight!
There is one last furious burst from trench mortars, howitzers and guns.