The ambulance was still waiting outside, at the foot of the staircase.  There were voices and lights in the operating room, forward along the tiled hall.  Still in his night clothing, Henri got into the ambulance and threw his uniform behind him.  Then he got the car under way.

Outside the village he paused long enough to dress.  His head was amazingly clear.  He had never felt so sure of himself before.  As to his errand he had no doubt whatever.  Jean had learned that he had crossed the channel.  Therefore Jean had taken up his work—­Jean, who had but one eye and was as clumsy as a bear.  The thought of Jean crawling through the German trenches set him laughing until he ended with a sob.

It was rather odd about the ambulance.  It did not keep the road very well.  Sometimes it was on one side and sometimes on the other.  It slid as though the road were greased.  And after a time Henri made an amazing discovery.  He was not alone in the car.

He looked back, without stopping, and the machine went off in a wide arc.  He brought it back again, grinning.

“Thought you had me, didn’t you?” he observed to the car in general, and the engine in particular.  “Now no tricks!”

There was a wounded man in the car.  He had had morphia and he was very comfortable.  He was not badly hurt, and he considered that he was being taken to Calais.  He was too tired to talk, and the swinging of the car rather interested him.  He would doze and waken and doze again.  But at last he heard something that made him rise on his elbow.

It was the hammering of the big guns.

He called Henri’s attention to this, but Henri said: 

“Lie down, Jean, and don’t talk.  We’ll make it yet.”

The wounded man intended to make a protest, but he went to sleep instead.

They had reached the village now where was the little house of mercy.  The ambulance rolled and leaped down the street, with both lights full on, which was forbidden, and came to a stop at the door.  The man inside was grunting then, and Henri, whose head had never been so clear, got out and went round to the rear of the car.

“Now, out with you, comrade!” he said.  “I have made an error, but it is immaterial.  Can you walk?”

He lighted a cigarette, and the man inside saw his burning eyes and shaking hands.  Even through the apathy of the morphia he felt a thrill of terror.  He could walk.  He got out while Henri pounded at the door.

“Attention!” he called.  “Attention!”

Then he hummed an air of the camps: 

        Trou la la, ce ne va guere;
        Trou la la, ca ne va pas.

When he heard steps inside Henri went back to the ambulance.  He got in and drove it, lights and all, down the street.

        Trou la la, ce ne va guere;
        Trou la la, ca ne va pas.

Somewhere down the road beyond the poplar trees he abandoned the ambulance.  They found it there the next morning, or rather what was left of it.  Evidently its two unwinking eyes had got on the Germans’ nerves.