They were quite unconscious of that man in the hole staring down the
length of his rifle, and listening intently for any sound which would
betray an enemy. Every night he shot two or three men, perfectly
patient in his long cold vigil if he could have that "luck." Then at dawn
he would crawl back again, bringing a helmet or two with him, a
cartridge belt or some other trophy as a sign of his success.
One night he shot a man who had stumbled quite close to his pit, and
some great instinct of pity for his victim stirred in him, so that he
risked a double journey over the open ground to fetch a spade with
which he buried the man. But soon afterwards he added to his "bag"
of human life. In his own trench he spoke very little and always
seemed to be waiting for the hour when he could crawl out again like
a Red Indian in search of scalps. He was the primitive man, living like
one of his ancestors of the Stone Age, except for the fire-stick with
which he was armed and the knowledge of the arts and beauties of
modern life in his hunter's head. For he was not a French Canadian
from the backwoods, or an Alpine chasseur from lonely mountains,
but a well-known lawyer from a French provincial town, with the blood
and education of a gentleman.
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