They stood side by side, stamping their feet to keep the blood going, without speaking. Once or twice Louis stepped forward, and at a signal from the officer the bearers stopped. But Louis shook his head, and they passed on. At midday the officer was relieved, his place being taken by another, who bowed stiffly to Louis and took no more notice of him. For war either hardens or softens. It never leaves a man as it found him.
All day the work was carried on. Through the hours this procession of the bearded dead went silently by. At the invitation of a sergeant, Louis took some soup and bread from the soldiers' table. The men laughingly apologized for the quality of both.
Towards evening the officer who had first come on duty returned to his work.
“Not yet?” he asked, offering the inevitable cigarette.
“Not yet,” answered Louis, and even as he spoke he stepped forward and stopped the bearers. He brushed aside the matted hair and beard.
“Is that your friend?” asked the officer.
“Yes.”
It was Charles at last.
“The doctor says these have been dead two months,” volunteered the first bearer, over his shoulder.
“I am glad you have found him,” said the officer, signing to the men to go on with their burden. “It is better to know—is it not?”