to
the summit. At the foot of the path was a sentry and behind him one of
the multicoloured tents.

"Are you a good climber?" asked the officer.

I said I was and we set out. The path extended only a part of the way,
to a place perhaps two hundred feet beyond the road, where what we
would call a cyclone cellar in America had been dug out of the
hillside. Like the others of the sort I had seen, it was muddy and
uninviting, practically a cave with a roof of turf.

The path ceased, and it was necessary to go diagonally up the steep
hillside through the snow. From numberless guns at the base of the
hill came steady reports, and as we ascended it was explained to me
that I was about to visit the headquarters of Major General H----,
commanding an army division.

"The last person I brought here," said the young officer, smiling,
"was the Prince of Wales."

We reached the top at last. There was a tiny farmhouse, a low stable
with a thatched roof, and, towering over all, the arms of a great
windmill. Chickens cackled round my feet, a pig grunted in a corner,
and apparently from directly underneath came the ear-splitting reports
of a battery as it fired.

"Perhaps I would better go ahead and tell them you are coming," said
the officer. "These people have probably not seen a woman in months,
and the shock would be too severe. We must break it gently."

So he went ahead, and I stood on the crest of that wind-swept hill and
looked across the valley to Messines, to Wytschaete and Ypres.

The battlefield lay spread out like a map. As I looked, clouds of
smoke over Messines told of the bursting of shells.

Major General H---- came hurrying out. His quarters occupy the only
high ground, with the exception of the near-by hill with its ruined
tower, in the neighbourhood of Ypres. Here, a week or so before, had
come the King of Belgium, to look with tragic eyes at all that
remained to him of his country. Here had come visiting Russian princes
from the eastern field, the King of England, the Prince of Wales. No
obscurities--except myself--had ever penetrated so far into the
fastness of the British lines.

Later on in the day I wrote my name in a visitors' book the officers
have established there, wrote under sprawling royal signatures, under
the boyish hand of the Prince of Wales, the irregular chirography of
Albert of Belgium, the blunt and soldierly name of General Joffre.

There are six officers stationed in the farmhouse,