the time determinedly shaking his bell. As he passed, I
asked him gravely why he rang the bell. He stared over his glasses with
astonishment, responded simply "Pour partir, m'sieur," and walked on,
still ringing. A bizarre incident, but an instance of duty, highly
conceived and carried out to the end.

A colonel of one of our Pioneer battalions rode by and hailed the
colonel. "We seem to be driving it pretty close," he said. "There's a
lot more artillery to cross yet, and they are shelling the bridge hard.
Which way do you go from here?"

"I've got two batteries to come, and I'm afraid one of 'em's still
over the bridge," responded the colonel. "We go to Thiescourt from
here."

11.30 A.M.: D Battery was passing now, with A not far behind. The
stream of traffic making for beyond the town was continuous as ever,
but the shelling had quietened, and the horses were kept at the walk.
The colonel stood and accepted the salutes of his batteries, and
criticised points of turn-out and horse-mastership as though he were
making an ordinary route-march inspection. And this compelling them to
think of something other than the physical dangers around and behind
them, had its moral effect upon the men. They held themselves more
erect, showed something of pride of regiment and race, and looked men
fit and worthy to fight again.

Civilians were still hurrying out of the town. A family passed us, the
husband in his best suit of dull black, top-hat, and white tie and all,
pushing a perambulator loaded with clothes, household ornaments, and
cooking requisites, his three children dragging at their mother's
skirts and weeping piteously. A fine-looking _vieillard_, with
clean-cut waxen features and white flowing moustaches, who wore his
brown velvet jacket and sombrero with an air, walked by erect and slow,
taking what he could of his belongings on a wheel-barrow. Even the
conjunction of the wheel-barrow could not prevent him looking dignified
and resolute.

And a terrier and a young retriever, oblivious of the tragedy around
them, gambolled up and down the Mairie steps and chased each other
across the street.

12 noon: Bigger shells had begun to fall, and still C Battery had not
come. The colonel glanced at his watch. One shell came near enough to
send a chimney-pot and some slates clattering to the ground, making a
pair of water-cart horses plunge wildly; a French soldier was killed
farther down the street. An officer cantered by an