harmonious Latin phrases, which sounded
to me like exquisite music. And as an accompaniment in the distance,
in the direction of Saint Thierry and Berry-au-Bac, the deep voice of
the guns muttered ceaselessly.

For the first time in the campaign I felt a kind of poignant
melancholy. For the first time I felt small and miserable, almost a
useless thing, compared with those two fine priestly figures who were
praying in the solitude of this country church for those who had
fallen and were falling yonder under shot and shell.

How I despised and upbraided myself at such moments! What a profound
disgust I felt for the follies of my garrison life, its gross
pleasures and silly excesses! I was ashamed of myself when I reflected
that death brushed by me every day, and that I might disappear to-day
or to-morrow, after so many ill-spent and unprofitable days.

Without any effort, and almost in spite of myself, pious words came
back to my lips--those words that my dear mother used to teach me on
her knee years and years ago. And I felt a quiet delight in the almost
forgotten words that came back to me:

"Forgive us our trespasses.... Pray for us, poor sinners...."

It seemed to me that I should presently go away a better man and a
more valiant soldier. And, as though to encourage and bless me, a
faint ray of sunshine came through the window.

_"Ite, missa est...."_ The priest turned round; and this time I
thought his eyes rested upon me, and that the look was a benediction
and an absolution.

But suddenly I heard in the alley close by a great noise of people
running and horses stamping, and a voice crying:

"Mount horses!... Mount horses!"

I was sorry to leave the little church of Pevy; I should so much have
liked to wait until those two priests came out, to speak to them, and
talk about other things than war, massacres and pillage. But duty
called me to my men, my horses, and to battle.

Shortly afterwards, as I passed at the head of my troop in front of
the large farm where the ambulance of the division was quartered, I
saw my abbe coming out of a barn, with his sleeves tucked up and his
_kepi_ on the side of his head. He was carrying a large pail of milk.
I recognised his clear look, and had no doubt that he recognised me
too, for as our eyes met he gave me a kindly smile.

My heart was lighter as I went forward, and my soul was calmer.

* * * * *

For the last six days we had be