TER V

THE BURIAL FIELDS

The automobile was going slowly forward under the colorless sky of a
winter morning.

In the distance, the earth's surface seemed trembling with white,
fluttering things resembling a band of butterflies poised on the
furrows. On one of the fields the swarm was of great size, on others, it
was broken into small groups.

As the machine approached these white butterflies, they seemed to
be taking on other colors. One wing was turning blue, another
flesh-colored. . . . They were little flags, by the hundreds, by the
thousands which palpitated night and day, in the mild, sunny, morning
breeze, in the damp drip of the dull mornings, in the biting cold of the
interminable nights. The rains had washed and re-washed them, stealing
away the most of their color. Some of the borders of the restless little
strips were mildewed by the dampness while others were scorched by the
sun, like insects which have just grazed the flames.

In the midst of the fluttering flags could be seen the black crosses
of wood. On these were hanging dark kepis, red caps, and helmets topped
with tufts of horsehair, slowly disintegrating and weeping atmospheric
tears at every point.

"How many are dead!" sighed Don Marcelo's voice from the automobile.

And Rene, who was seated in front of him, sadly nodded his head. Dona
Luisa was looking at the mournful plain while her lips trembled slightly
in constant prayer. Chichi turned her great eyes in astonishment from
one side to the other. She appeared larger, more capable in spite of the
pallor which blanched her olive skin.

The two ladies were dressed in deepest mourning. The father, too, was
in mourning, huddled down in the seat in a crushed attitude, his legs
carefully covered with the great fur rugs. Rene was wearing his campaign
uniform under his storm coat. In spite of his injuries, he had not
wished to retire from the army. He had been transferred to a technical
office till the termination of the war.

The Desnoyers family were on the way to carry out their long-cherished
hope.

Upon recovering consciousness after the fatal news, the father had
concentrated all his will power in one petition.

"I must see him. . . . Oh, my son! . . . My son!"

Vain were the senator's efforts to show him the impossibility of such
a journey. The fighting was still going on in the zone where Julio had
fallen. Later on, perhaps, it might be possible to visit it. "I want to
see it!"