ed seeing then the great hills surrounding it on every side,
hiding their menace and protection of guns, and in the south and east
the silent valley where the high forests dominate the Moselle, and the
town below the road standing in an island or ring of tall trees. All
this, I say, I had permanently remembered, and I had determined,
whenever I could go on pilgrimage to Rome, to make this place my
starting-point, and as I stopped here and looked back, a little way
outside the gates, I took in again the scene that recalled so much
laughter and heavy work and servitude and pride of arms.

I was looking straight at the great fort of St Michel, which is the
strongest thing on the frontier, and which is the key to the circle of
forts that make up this entrenched camp. One could see little or
nothing of its batteries, only its hundreds of feet of steep brushwood
above the vineyards, and at the summit a stunted wood purposely
planted. Next to it on the left, of equal height, was the hog back of
the Cote Barine, hiding a battery. Between the Cote Barine and my
road and wall, I saw the rising ground and the familiar Barracks that
are called (I know not why) the Barracks of Justice, but ought more
properly to be called the Barracks of petty tyrannies and good
fellowship, in order to show the philosophers that these two things
are the life of armies; for of all the virtues practised in that old
compulsory home of mine Justice came second at least if not third,
while Discipline and Comradeship went first; and the more I think of
it the more I am convinced that of all the suffering youth that was
being there annealed and forged into soldiery none can have suffered
like the lawyers. On the right the high trees that stand outside the
ramparts of the town went dwindling in perspective like a palisade,
and above them, here and there, was a roof showing the top of the
towers of the Cathedral or of St Gengoult. All this I saw looking
backwards, and, when I had noticed it and drawn it, I turned round
again and took the road.

I had, in a small bag or pocket slung over my shoulder, a large piece
of bread, half a pound of smoked ham, a sketch-book, two Nationalist
papers, and a quart of the wine of Brule--which is the most famous
wine in the neighbourhood of the garrison, yet very cheap. And Brule
is a very good omen for men that are battered about and given to
despairing, since it is only called Brule on account of its having
been burnt