brushed past them, but they did not even turn round. Eyes, mind,
and will were absorbed in the dark mystery of the silent landscape
stretching out before them. But the night, though it was so bright,
gave everything a strange appearance; transformed all living things
and increased their size; made the stones, the stacks, and the trees
move, as it seemed to our weary eyes; cast fitful shadows where there
were none; and made us hear murmurs which sounded like the muffled
tramp of troops marching cautiously. Those men watched because they
felt that there was always the danger of a surprise attack, of a
sudden rush of Teutons who had crawled up through the grass of the
fields. They had piled on their backs empty sacks, blankets, and old
rags, for warmth, and wound their mufflers two or three times round
their necks; they had taken all possible precautions for carrying out
their duty to the very last. And although our hearts had been
hardened by the unprecedented miseries of this war, we were seized
with pity and admiration. Presently one of them turned round and said
to us:

"Hallo! They are lighting up over there now."

I jumped up on to the ledge and saw, in fact, lights shining in three
different places some way off. After looking attentively I guessed the
meaning of this quite unusual illumination in the rear of the
trenches. The lights came from some large fir-trees, placed there
under cover of night, and beautifully lighted up. With my glasses I
could make them out distinctly, and even the figures dancing round
them; and we could hear their voices and shouts of merriment. How well
they had arranged the whole thing! They had even gone as far as to
light up their Christmas trees with electricity, so as to prevent our
gunners from using them as an easy target. In fact, every few minutes
all the lights on a tree were suddenly put out, and only appeared some
minutes afterwards.

We had thrilled instinctively. Suddenly there arose, all over the wide
plain, solemn and melodious singing. We still remembered singing of a
similar kind we had recently heard at Bixschoote on a tragic occasion;
and here were the same tuneful voices again, singing a hymn of the
same kind as those they sang further to the north before shouting
their hurrahs for the attack. But we did not fear anything of that
kind now. We had the impression that this singing was not a special
prayer in front of our little sector of trenches, but that it was
gene