"It's a man, anyhow," said Pringle.
"No, there are two."
"They are alive."
"No, they are dead."
A few seconds later they reached the spot, and saw what they will never forget, if they live twice the years allotted to man.
In a dry ditch, locked in each other's embrace, were two dead soldiers, one a Frenchman, the other a German. Both had evidently been wounded, but they had engaged in a death struggle. They had fought to the deaths without either conquering the other, and they had died in each other's arms.
There was no look of fury or hatred in the face of either. The hand of death had smoothed away all traces of this. Nevertheless, it had been a duel to the death.
They were little more than boys, perhaps about twenty-four, and both were privates. Their faces proclaimed their nationalities even more plainly than their uniforms.
"I expect they had never seen each other before," said Bob, like one thinking aloud; "they bore no enmity towards each other."
"Except that one was French and the other German," said Pringle. "That was enough for them. Somehow they found themselves together, and fought it out. I expect it was at night time. By God, it's ghastly, isn't it? And this is war!"