They march—­for a long time.  “We must have come a long way,” says Volpatte, after half an hour of fruitless paces and encloistered loneliness.

“I say, we’re going downhill a hell of a lot, don’t you think?” asks Blaire.

“Don’t worry, old duffer,” scoffs Pepin, “but if you’ve got cold feet you can leave us to it.”

Still we tramp on in the falling night.  The ever-empty trench—­a desert of terrible length—­has taken a shabby and singular appearance.  The parapets are in ruins; earthslides have made the ground undulate in hillocks.

An indefinite uneasiness lays hold of the four huge fire-hunters, and increases as night overwhelms them in this monstrous road.

Pepin, who is leading just now, stands fast and holds up his hand as a signal to halt.  “Footsteps,” they say in a sobered tone.

Then, and in the heart of them, they are afraid.  It was a mistake for them all to leave their shelter for so long.  They are to blame.  And one never knows.

“Get in there, quick, quick!” says Pepin, pointing to a right-angled cranny on the ground level.

By the test of a hand, the rectangular shadow is proved to be the entry to a funk-hole.  They crawl in singly; and the last one, impatient, pushes the others; they become an involuntary carpet in the dense darkness of the hole.

A sound of steps and of voices becomes distinct and draws nearer.  From the mass of the four men who tightly hung up the burrow, tentative hands are put out at a venture.  All at once Pepin murmurs in a stifled voice, “What’s this?”

“What?” ask the others, pressed and wedged against him.

“Clips!” says Pepin under his breath, “Boche cartridge-clips on the shelf!  We’re in the Boche trench!”

“Let’s hop it.”  Three men make a jump to get out.

“Look out, bon Dieu!  Don’t stir!—­footsteps—­”

They hear some one walking, with the quick step of a solitary man.  They keep still and bold their breath.  With their eyes fixed on the ground level, they see the darkness moving on the right, and then a shadow with legs detaches itself, approaches, and passes.  The shadow assumes an outline.  It is topped by a helmet covered with a cloth and rising to a point.  There is no other sound than that of his passing feet.

Hardly has the German gone by when the four cooks, with no concerted plan and with a single movement, burst forth, jostling each other, run like madmen, and hurl themselves on him.

“Kamerad, messieurs!” he says.

But the blade of a knife gleams and disappears.  The man collapses as if he would plunge into the ground.  Pepin seizes the helmet as the Boche is failing and keeps it in his hand.

“Let’s leg it,” growls the voice of Poupardin.

“Got to search him first!”

They lift him and turn him over, and set the soft, damp and warm body up again.  Suddenly he coughs.