CHAPTER XIII
At Blaisencourt it was spring again. The war was nearly a year old. Blaisencourt was now a street of houses' ghosts, of rubble and dirt, populated by soldiers. A little new grass sprouted peevishly here and there; an occasional house retained enough of its original shape to harbour an industry. Captain Crouan, his arm in a sling, was looking over a heap of débris with the aid of field glasses.
"I see him," he said, pointing to a place on the boiling field where an apparent lump of soil had detached itself.
"He rises! He goes on! He takes one of his mighty leaps! Ah, God, if I only had a company of such men!"
His aide, squatted near by, muttered something under his breath. The captain spoke again. "He is very near their infernal little g*n now. He has taken his rope. Ahaaaa
