One word for the cathedral of Amiens before we leave the bustling streets of the old Picard capital.  This is so far untouched and unharmed, though exposed, like everything else behind the front, to the bombs of German aeroplanes.  The great west front has disappeared behind a mountain of sandbags; the side portals are protected in the same way, and inside, the superb carvings of the choir are buried out of sight.  But at the back of the choir the famous weeping cherub sits weeping as before, peacefully querulous.  There is something irritating in his placid and too artistic grief.  Not so is “Rachel weeping for her children” in this war-ravaged country.  Sterner images of Sorrow are wanted here—­looking out through burning eyes for the Expiation to come.

* * * * *

Then we are off, bound for Albert, though first of all for the Headquarters of the particular Army which has this region in charge.  The weather, alack! is still thick.  It is under cover of such an atmosphere that the Germans have been stealing away, removing guns and stores wherever possible, and leaving rear-guards to delay our advance.  But when the rear-guards amount to some 100,000 men, resistance is still formidable, not to be handled with anything but extreme prudence by those who have such vast interests in charge as the Generals of the Allies.

Our way takes us first through a small forest, where systematic felling and cutting are going on under British forestry experts.  The work is being done by German prisoners, and we catch a glimpse through the trees of their camp of huts in a barbed-wire enclosure.  Their guards sleep under canvas! ...  And now we are in the main street of a large picturesque village, approaching a chateau.  A motor lorry comes towards us, driven at a smart pace, and filled with grey-green uniforms.  Prisoners!—­this time fresh from the field.  We have already heard rumours on our way of successful fighting to the south.

The famous Army Commander himself, who had sent us a kind invitation to lunch with him, is unexpectedly engaged in conference with a group of French generals; but there is a welcome suggestion that on our way back from the Somme he will be free and able to see me.  Meanwhile we go off to luncheon and much talk with some members of the Staff in a house on the village street.  Everywhere I notice the same cheerful, one might even say radiant, confidence.  No boasting in words, but a conviction that penetrates through all talk that the tide has turned, and that, however long it may take to come fully up, it is we whom it is floating surely on to that fortune which is no blind hazard, but the child of high faith and untiring labour.  Of that labour the Somme battlefields we were now to see will always remain in my mind—­in spite of ruin, in spite of desolation—­as a kind of parable in action, never to be forgotten.

No. 5