It went thrilling through my being. It struck me harder than any shell, seeming to fell me for a moment to the ground....
Then I rose, permeated with a sense of living in the world's greatest drama, and feeling, not seeing, Art and Life and Death and Literature inextricably and terribly, yet gloriously mixed, till one could not be told from the other....
For he who had given his life, whose blood dropped red from him as he moved, knew not what had happened to his city.
He was only a soldier!
His was to fight, not to know.
"Est-ce que la ville est prise?"
It is months since then, but I still hear that perishing soldier's voice, breaking over his terrific query.
... Presently, rousing myself, I ran onwards and walked beside the men, giving my arm to the younger one, who took it mechanically, without thanking me.
I liked that, and all together we hastened through the livid greyness along the Avenue de Commerce, towards the Breda Gate.