Some, seated on piles of wood, were
smiling as they read a little periodical published in the trenches.
The soldiers stepped aside to make way for the visiting procession,
bearded and curious faces peeping out of the alleyways. Afar off sounded
a crackling of short snaps as though at the end of the winding lanes
were a shooting lodge where a group of sportsmen were killing pigeons.
The morning was still cloudy and cold. In spite of the humid atmosphere,
a buzzing like that of a horsefly, hummed several times above the two
visitors.
"Bullets!" said their conductor laconically.
Desnoyers meanwhile had lowered his head a little, he knew perfectly
well that insectivorous sound. The senator walked on more briskly,
temporarily forgetting his weariness.
They came to a halt before a lieutenant-colonel who received them like
an engineer exhibiting his workshops, like a naval officer showing off
the batteries and turrets of his battleships. He was the Chief of the
battalion occupying this section of the trenches. Don Marcelo studied
him with special interest, knowing that his son was under his orders.
To the two friends, these subterranean fortifications bore a certain
resemblance to the lower parts of a vessel. They passed from trench
to trench of the last line, the oldest--dark galleries into which
penetrated streaks of light across the loopholes and broad, low windows
of the mitrailleuse.
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