CHAPTER XLII

ON either side of the French Detachment stretched
the-far-flung, powerful forces of Britain, mile upon
mile they stretched east and west, the arms of a giant
on the trunk of a pigmy — a political pigmy, or so
it was said by some, but for all that efficient enough,
since most of its members had seen hard service.
The September night was bountiful and moonlit,
having about it the quality of stillness that engenders
a deep and refreshing sleep in those whom the toils of
the day have wearied, having about it the quality of
peace that engenders a mood of prayer in the religious,
having about it the quality of mystery that engenders
romance in the hearts of lovers. But the night could
bestow none of these gentle things, for its spirit must
submit to the violence of war, to the thunder of the
Turkish artillery whose barrage dropped now upon
No Man's Land and now upon flesh and blood in the
trenches.
The men of the Legion d'Orient crouched, waiting;
they had something to wait for, those Armenians; and
the Syrians, they also had their memories and could
therefore wait with comparative patience, cursing
softly and often in Arabic while doing quite a lot of
hard thinking.
Colonel Prevost had said, and no doubt with some
truth, when an officer of the Tirailleurs had spoken
disparagingly of this mixture, Colonel Prevost had
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