metres under our present Colonel, who is known in the Legion as The Marching Pig, and we do it three or four times a week. On forced marches we do anything that is to be done, inasmuch as it is the unalterable law of the Legion that all forced marches must be done in one march. If the next post were forty miles away or even fifty, and the matter urgent, we should go straight on without a halt, except the usual 'cigarette space,' or five minutes in every hour, until we got there. I assure you I have very often marched as much as six hundred kilometres in fifteen days, and occasionally much more. And we carry the heaviest kit in the world—over a hundred-weight, in full marching order."
"What is a kilometre?" asked the interested Rupert.
"Call it five furlongs."
"Then an ordinary day's march is about thirty miles without a halt, and you may have to do four hundred miles straight off, at the rate of twenty-five consecutive miles a day? Good Lord above us!"
"Yes, my own personal record is five hundred and sixty miles in nineteen days, without a rest day—under the African sun and across sand. …"
"I say—what's this game?" interrupted Rupert, as the three turned a corner and entered a small square between the rear of the caserne of the Fourth Company and the great barrack-wall—a square of which all exits were guarded by sentries with fixed bayonets. Round and round in a ring at a very rapid quick-step ran a dismal procession of suffering men, to the monotonously reiterated order of a Corporal—
"A droit, droit. A droit, droit. A droit, droit."
Their blanched, starved-looking faces, glazed eyes,
