as well as of delirious excitement and joy. In spite of it being the small hours of the morning, every man howled or whistled his own favourite song, without a sign of that liverish grumpiness which generally accompanies early-morning effort. The great Luigi's slaves worked at double pressure since they had to equip their lord and master as well as themselves. Feodor Kyrilovitch appeared to pack his own knapsack with one hand and that of Mikhail with the other, while he whispered words of cheer and encouragement. The Dutch boy, Hans Djoolte, having finished his work, knelt down beside his bed and engaged in prayer. Speculation was rife as to whether France had declared war on Morocco, or whether the Arabs were in rebellion, for the hundredth time, and lighting the torch of destruction all along the Algerian border.
In ten minutes from the blowing of the alarm-bugle, the Battalion was on parade in the barrack-square, every man fully equipped and laden like a beast of burden. One thought filled every mind as the ammunition boxes were brought from the magazine and prised open. What would the cardboard packets contain? A few seconds after the first packet had been torn open by the first man to whom one was tossed, the news had spread throughout the Battalion.
Ball-Cartridge!
The Deity in that moment received the heartfelt fervid thanks of almost every man in the barrack-square, for ball-cartridge meant active service—in any case, a blessed thing, whatever might result—the blessing of death, of promotion, of decorations, of wounds and discharge from the Legion. The blessing of change, to begin with.
