ermany. But we
believe we shall get it all again some day. And now we must go, for the
Boches shell this road whenever they think of it, or have nothing better
to do!"

The signal was given. We turned and tore along the road by which we'd
come, our backs feeling rather sensitive and exposed to chance German
bombs, until we'd got round the corner to a "safe section." Our way led
through a pitiful country of crippled trees to a curious round hill. A
little castle or miniature fortress must have crowned it once, for the
height was entirely circled by an ancient moat. On top of this green
mound Prince Eitel Fritz built for himself the imitation shooting-lodge
which was our goal and viewpoint. And, Padre, there can't be another
such German-looking spot in martyred France as he has made of the
insulted hillock!

I don't know how many fair young birch trees he sacrificed to build a
summer-house for himself and his staff to drink beer in, and gaze over
the country, at St. Quentin, at Soissons and a hundred conquered towns
and villages! Now he's obliged to look from St. Quentin at the
summer-house--and how we pray that it may not be for long!

Over one door of the building a pair of crossed swords carved heavily in
wood form a stolid German decoration; and still more maddeningly German
are the seats outside the house, made of cement and shaped like
toadstools. In the sitting room are rough chairs, and a big table so
stained with wine and beer that I could almost see the fat figures of
the prince and his friends grouped round it, with cheers for "_Wein,
Weib, und Gesang_."

Close down below us, in sloping green meadows, a lot of war-worn horses
_en permission_ were grazing peacefully. Our guide said that some were
"Americans," and I fancied them dreaming of Kentucky grasslands, or the
desert herbs of the Far West, which they will never taste again. Also I
yearned sorrowfully over the weary creatures that had done their "bit"
without any incentive, without much praise or glory, and that would
presently go back to do it all over again, until they died or were
finally disabled. I remembered a cavalry-man I nursed in our _Hopital
des Epidemies_ telling me how brave horses are. "The only trouble with
them in battle," he said, "is when their riders are killed, to make
them fall out of line. They _will_ keep their places!"

Both Father Beckett and the French officer had field-glasses, but we
hardly needed them for St. Quentin. Far