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By Root 4645 0

until they were out of it again. The narrow corridor had not descended, there were no more steps. It was as if the earth it tunnelled through had sunk as an elevator sinks, holding the corridor itself intact, immune, empty of any life or sound save that of their boots, the whitewashed stone sweating in furious immobility beneath the whole concentrated weight of history, stratum upon stratum of dead tradition impounded by the Hotel above them-monarchy revolution empire and republic, duke farmer-general and sans culotte, levee tribunal and guillotine, liberty fraternity equality and death and the people the People always to endure and prevail, the group, the clump, huddled now, going quite fast until the lowan cried again: 'No, I tell you! I aint-' until Buchwald stopped, stopping them all, and turned and said to the lowan in a calm and furious murmur: 'Beat it,'

'What?' the lowan cried. 'I cant! Where would I go?'

How the hell do I know?' Buchwald said. 'I aint the one that's dissatisfied here,'

'Come on,' the sergeant-major said. They went on. They reached a door; it was locked. The sergeant-major unlocked and opened it.

'Do we report?' Buchwald said.

'Not to me,' the sergeant-major said. 'You can even keep the pistol for a souvenir. The car'll be waiting where you got out of it,' and was about to close the door until Buchwald after one rapid glance into the room turned and put his foot against the door and said again in that harsh calm furious controlled voice: 'Christ, cant the sons of bitches even get a priest for him?'

They're still trying,' the sergeant-major said. 'Somebody sent for Thursday Night the priest out at the compound two hours ago and he aint got back yet. They cant seem to find him,'

'So we're supposed to wait for him,' Buchwald said in that tone of harsh calm unbearable outrage.

'Supposed by who?' the sergeant-major said. 'Move your foot,' Buchwald did, the door closed, the lock clashed behind them and the three of them were in a cell, a cubicle fierce with whitewash and containing the single unshaded electric light and a three-legged stool like a farmer's milking stool, and the French general. That is, it was a French face and by its expression and cast it had been used to enough rank long enough to be a general's, besides the insignia and the dense splash of ribbons and the Sam Browne belt and the leather puttees, though the uniform which bore them were the plain G. I. tunic and trousers which a cavalry sergeant would have worn, standing now, erect and rigid as though enclosed by the fading aura of the convulsive movement which had brought him to his feet, who said sharply in French: 'Attention there!'

'What?' Buchwald said to the Negro beside him. 'What did he say?'

'How in hell do I know?' the Negro said. "Quick!' he said in a panting voice. That lowan bastard. Do something about him quick,'

'Right,' Buchwald said, turning. 'Grab the Frog then,' and turned on to meet the lowan.

'No, I tell you!' the lowan cried. 'I aint going to-' Buchwald struck him skilfully, the blow seeming not to travel at all before the lowan catapulted backward against the wall, then slid down it to the floor, Buchwald turning again in time to see the Negro grasp at the French general and the French general turn sharply face-to and against the wall, saying over his shoulder in French as Buchwald snapped the safety off the pistol: 'Shoot now, you whorehouse scum. I will not turn,'

'Jerk him around,' Buchwald said.

Tut that damn safety back on!' the Negro panted, glaring back at him. Tou want to shoot me too? Come on. It will take both of us,' Buchwald closed the safety though he still held the pistol in his hand while they struggled, all three of them or two of them to drag the French general far enough from the wall to turn him. 'Hit him a little,' the Negro panted. 'We got to knock him out,'

'How in hell can you knock out a man that's already dead?' Buchwald panted.

'Come on,' the Negro panted. 'Just a little. Hurry,' Buchwald struck, trying to gauge the blow, and he was right: the body collapsed until the Negro