girl rushed to him,
and, clasping his knees, offered him anything he might wish, if only he
would say nothing. I think he must have hesitated for a moment, but he
did not hesitate long. The girl was shot.

Full of this suspiciously melodramatic story I caught sight of a
mysterious document fastened by nails to the house opposite the inn. It
was covered with coloured signs which, whatever they were, certainly did
not form letters or make sense in any way. I examined the document
closely. One sign looked like an aeroplane, another like a house, a
third like the rough drawing of a wood. I took it to a certain officer,
who agreed with me that it appeared suspicious.

We carried it to the staff-captain, who pointed out very forcibly that
it had been raining lately, that colour ran, that the signs left formed
portions of letters. I demanded the owner of the house upon which the
document had been posted. She was frightened and almost unintelligible,
but supplied the missing fragments. The document was a crude election
appeal. Being interpreted it read something like this:--

SUPPORT LEFEVRE. HE IS NOT A LIAR LIKE DUBOIS.

Talking of spies, here is another story. It is true.

Certain wires were always being cut. At length a patrol was organised.
While the operator was talking there was a little click and no further
acknowledgment from the other end. The patrol started out and caught the
man in the act of cutting a second wire. He said nothing.

He was brought before the Mayor. Evidence was briefly given of his
guilt. He made no protest. It was stated that he had been born in the
village. The Mayor turned to the man and said--

"You are a traitor. It is clear. Have you anything to say?"

The man stood white and straight. Then he bowed his head and made
answer--

"Priez pour moi."

That was no defence. So they led him away.

The morning after I arrived at the 14th the Germans concentrated their
fire on a large turnip-field and exhumed multitudinous turnips. No
further damage was done, but the field was unhealthily near the
Estaminet de l'Epinette. In the afternoon we moved our headquarters back
a mile or so to a commodious and moderately clean farm with a
forgettable name.

That evening two prisoners were brought in. They owned to eighteen, but
did not look more than sixteen. The guard treated them with kindly
contempt. We all sat round a makeshift table in the loft where we slept
and told each other stories