s! Be sure to remember
that! But so-and-so was the best!" Or he jumped up from his chair by
the sofa, and dropped his wife's hand to point out something on the
map, spread like a cloth over the whole top of a bridge-table.

It was his finger that sketched for our eyes the sharp triangle which
the road-journey had formed: Amiens to Albert: Albert to Peronne:
Peronne to Bapaume: Bapaume to Arras: Arras to Bethune, and so on to
Ypres: his finger that reminded Brian of the first forest on the road--a
forest full of working German prisoners.

At Pont-Noyelles, between Amiens and Albert, they were met by an officer
who was to be their guide for that part of the British front which they
were to visit. He was sent from headquarters, but hadn't been able to
afford time for Amiens. However, Pont-Noyelles was the most interesting
place between there and Albert. A tremendous battle was fought on that
spot in '70, between the French under famous General Faidherbe and the
Germans under Manteuffel--a _perfect_ name for a German general of these
days, if not of those! There were two monuments to commemorate the
battle--one high on a hill above the village; and the officer guide
(with the face of a boy and the grim experience of an Old Contemptible)
was well up in their history. He turned out to be a friend of friends of
Brian and knew the history of Sirius as well as that of all the
war-wasted land. He and Brian, though they'd never met, had fought near
each other it seemed, and he could describe for the blind eyes all the
changes that had come upon the Somme country since Brian's "day." The
roads which had been remade by the British over the shell-scarred and
honeycombed surface of the land; the aerodromes; the training-camps; the
tanks; the wonderful new railways for troops and ammunition: the bands
of German prisoners docilely at work.

When the great gray car stopped, throbbing, at special view-points here
and there, it was Brian who could listen for a lark's message of hope
among the billowing downs, or draw in the tea-rose scent of earth from
some brown field tilled by a woman. It was Father Beckett who saw the
horrors of desolation--desolation more hideous even than on the French
front; because, since the beginning, here had burned the hottest furnace
of war: here had fallen a black, never-ceasing rain of bombardment,
night and day, day and night, year after year.

It was the cherubic Old Contemptible who could tell each deta