There was another tearing, whistling noise. Then a thud and a gurgle. This time it had done for Lesueur, the company commander.
Castel looked at the stark figure.
"The last of them—the last of the officers!"
Lagrange paused between shots. His rifle was red-hot. It needed cooling. Half a cigarette was stuck behind his left ear. He lit it, and blew the smoke into the air.
"Right, mon bougre! The last one indeed. And we need officers—God, what do I say? We need one officer, just one—to give the word—to lead—to charge." He sobbed. The tears flowed down into his thick, matted beard. "Just one officer—one!"
His voice snapped off in mid air.
He stared open-eyed. A trim, boyish figure rose from the trench, sword in hand. He waved it in circles.
"Fix bayonets! Charge, my boys; charge!"
Lagrange rubbed his eyes. He was utterly bewildered.
"But it is the little lieutenant. But he had been kicked out of the regiment."
He could not understand it at all. Again he
