“That’s number two group,” said he, mechanically; “Corporal Davies is in charge there, eh, Morgan?”

Some sickly lines of Edgar Allen Poe started up in his brain and began to race along it, repeating themselves again and again. Though he was a little worried by their repetition, they gave him a sense of romance, of power.

“We’ll start from the ravine and work upwards,” he said, stepping onto the duck-boards.

Though both officer and servant were well acquainted with those steep and winding¹⁰ trenches¹¹, they had to feel their way along, so black was the night, so ineffective the light of the glinting and eager stars. They came upon a group of men in a fire-bay; two of them, stretched on the fire-step, were asleep. The sentry on duty stood looking over the top of the trench; by his side was the N.C.O. in charge of the group.

“Everything all right, Corporal?” asked Latimer, in a low voice.

“Everything, sir,” whispered the corporal.

A few yards further on, Latimer stopped. He wanted to cry out. He longed to scream wildly and break this conspiracy¹² of silence. Suddenly, it seemed to him as though the entire country-side were for a brief second illuminated¹³ by a magnificent burst of light: Le Grand Couronné was revealed from top to toe; in the slits¹⁴ crinkling the breasts and flanks of the mountain he saw dark, bearded Bulgars, bullet-headed and yellow-toothed. They were all gazing at him with cruel, malignant¹⁵ eyes.... The hallu{137}cination passed.

“I feel ill, Morgan,” he said.

Morgan, a man twice Latimer’s age—for Latimer was still in his teens—took from his pocket a bottle of tabloids¹⁶.

“You ought to have gone sick this morning, sir,” said Morgan; “or, better still, let me take you to the telephone dug-out.... Have a drink from my water-bottle, sir.... Ask Captain Mitchell to send another officer out to relieve you.”

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