Save for a few figures that lay motionless or squirming in agony on the
field, the regiment had passed on, to be lost in the trees at the crest
of the hill. With a pang of disappointment, I realized that Louis would
be among them.
Involuntarily I started onward, driven still by that impulse of burning
hatred, when I heard my name called.
Turning in surprise, I saw a helmeted figure crouching beside something
huddled in the tall grass. No second glance was needed to tell me that
the huddled something was the body of a soldier. I had eyes only for
the man who was bending over him. Fate had been kind to me. It was
Louis.
Apparently, in his preoccupation, he had not noticed me. Coolly I
raised my rifle and fired.
The result was startling. Louis neither dropped headlong nor looked up
at the report. Vaguely I questioned whether there had been a report.
Thwarted, I felt the lust to kill mounting in me with redoubled fury.
With rifle upraised, I ran toward him. A terrific swing, and I crashed
the stock against his head.
It passed clear through! Louis remained unmoved.
Uncomprehending, snarling, I flung the useless weapon away and fell
upon him with bare hands--with fingers that strained to rend and tear
and strangle.
Instead of encountering solid flesh and bone, they too passed through
him.
Was it a mirage? A dream? Had I gone crazy? Sobered--for a moment
forgetful of my fury--I drew back and tried to reduce the thing to
reason. Was Louis but a figment of the imagination--a phantom?
My glance fell upon the figure beside which he was sobbing incoherent
words of entreaty.