such trials, they were doubtless the stones on the
path to heaven. However, the Corporal also had
dreams, not the least of which was a brothel in Paris.
Christophe stood and gazed down at Jan; he was
peacefully sleeping with his head on his arm. Sweat
had mingled with the grime and blood on his face, and
the sleeve upon which his cheek rested was bloody.
One hand was clutching his rosary; he must have been
telling his beads again, for his thumb still marked the
place in a decade. And while he gazed at him Chris-
tophe was conscious of a curious feeling of desolation,
as though Jan had failed him by falling asleep:
* Could you not have kept awake for an hour, just
until I had gone?5 he heard himself saying, 'Surely
you might have kept awake for an hour . . .5 Then he
frowned, CI am being unjust,5 he thought, cjan is
utterly spent, that is why he sleeps.9 Yet he felt a
sudden impulse to wake him.
'Jan!5
But Jan only stirred slightly and sighed, so Chris-
tophe passed on and left him sleeping.
§2
The Patrol was well beyond the Listening Posts.
It was creeping forward, each man for himself, each
man all eyes, all ears, and all nerves. Every sense
concentrated in eyes and ears, every nerve responding
to the least sound or movement, A few thin clouds
drifted across the moon from time to time; they
were unexpected, clouds were seldom seen before
the month of October. The light was shifting and
treacherous, the ground difficult and bristling with
pitfalls.
No one spoke, it was not a moment for speaking. The
Armenians and Syrians gripped their rifles. What was
lying in wait for them just ahead? The silence was un-
480