It was as though from the graveyard back in the fields had come, alive
and smiling, some dearly beloved friend.
He would have told the story, but he was wet and weary.
"That can wait," they said, and led him, a motley band of officers and
men intermixed, for once forgetting all decorum, toward the village.
They overtook the lines of men who had left the trenches and were moving
with their slow and weary gait up the road. The news spread through the
column. There were muffled cheers. Figures stepped out of the darkness
with hands out. Henri clasped as many as he could.
When with his escort he had passed the men they fell, almost without
orders, into columns of four, and swung in behind him. There was no
band, but from a thousand throats, yet cautiously until they passed the
poplar trees, there gradually swelled and grew a marching song.
Behind Henri a strange guard of honor--muddy, tired, torn, even
wounded--they marched and sang:
Trou la la, ca ne va guere;
Trou la la, ce ne va pas.
Sara Lee, listening for that first shuffle of many feet that sounded so
like the wind in the trees or water over the pebbles of a brook, paused
in her work and lifted her head.
Pages:
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328