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A strange electricity ran through us all. The card-players had thrown down their cards just as the plumber was about to trump an ace. The others had tossed aside their papers and laid down their cigarettes. The Turco "Muley Hafid" he was called, because those were the only words of his any one could understand who had been deploying imaginary troops, with the aid of matches, upon the counterpane, as though he were a sick child playing with leaden soldiers, recognised the tune, and in default of words began to beat time with a soup spoon. Up and down the passage way between the beds marched the fife and drum; louder beat the drum, more piercing grew the fife. What delirious joy-of-battle, what poignant cries of anguish, has not that immortal music both stirred and soothed! To what supremacy of effort has it not incited? It has succoured dying men with its viaticum. It has brought fire to glazing eyes. It has exalted men a little higher than the angels, it has won the angels to the side of men: Tout est soldat pour vous combattre: S'ils tombent, nos jeunes héros, La terre en produit de nouveaux Contre vous tout prêts
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