iocre troopers, I knew too well what we
officers feel when we lose even a passable Chasseur, to wonder at the
melancholy of my charming young comrade.

Time went on, and there were no signs of a fresh attack. The enemy's
artillery seemed to be neglecting us, and to be bent upon the
destruction of the Boesinghe bridge, by which we had crossed the Yser.
His great shells flew over our heads with a sinister roar, and a few
seconds later we heard the explosion far behind us. The German
trenches in front of us were silent. A single shot fired at intervals
alone reminded us that they were not forsaken.

"_Mon Lieutenant_, it's all ready."

A corporal had come out of the wood to tell O. that the graves were dug.
When we had sent word to our chiefs, and placed our non-commissioned
officers in temporary command, our strange, sad procession of mourners
left the trenches and slipped through the thicket in single file. There
were four officers, the Lieutenant-Colonel, Major B., O., and myself and
four non-commissioned officers. It would have been dangerous to deplete
the firing line further.

With heavy hearts we retraced our steps through the wood we had so
lately passed through in all the exaltation of our advance. We knew
the moral anguish we were about to feel in rendering this last service
to our young brothers-in-arms. It was unhappily by no means the first
time we had held such a ceremony, but never had I been present at one
in such tragic circumstances, nor in such impressive surroundings. We
hurried along, almost running in our anxiety to return quickly to our
men. The branches caught at us and slashed our faces, the dead leaves
and twigs crackled under our tread. Above us the shells still sang
their funeral song.

We had now come in sight of the burial-ground. In the moonlight, at
the edge of the wood close to the spot where our gallant fellows had
fallen, we could distinguish newly-dug earth, and four silent men
standing beside it, their tunics thrown off, leaning on spade and
pickaxe. It was there.

In a little ravaged garden-plot, at the foot of great trees which
would guard these graves, they had dug two holes, which, by night,
looked extraordinarily deep and dark.

Ought we to lament or to envy the touching and simple burial rite of
soldiers? To me, nothing could be more beautiful than such a last
resting-place. Why should we desire richer tombs, sepulchral stones,
and sculptured monuments? We are all equal u