It seemed as if more than a million men lay dead in the fields and woods of Northeastern France.
John, who had been wide awake, suddenly dropped on the ground where the others were stretched.

He collapsed all in a moment, as if every drop of blood had been drained suddenly from his body.

Keyed high throughout the day, his whole system now gave way before the accumulated impact of events so tremendous.

The silence save for the distant moaning that succeeded the roar of a million men or more in battle was like a powerful drug, and he slept like one dead, never moving hand or foot.
He was roused shortly before morning by some one who shook him gently but persistently, and at last he sat up, looking around in the dim light for the person who had dragged him back from peace to a battle-mad world.

He saw an unkempt, bearded man in a French uniform, one sleeve stained with blood, and he recognized Weber, the Alsatian.
"Why, Weber!" he exclaimed, "they've got you, too! This is bad! They may consider you, an Alsatian, a traitor, and execute you at once!" Weber smiled in rather melancholy fashion, and said in a low tone: "It's bad enough to be captured, but I won't be shot Nobody here knows that I'm an Alsatian, and consequently they will think I'm a Frenchman.
If you call me anything, call me Fernand, which is my first name, but which they will take for the last." "All right, Fernand.