What was the sense of it?  Why, in God’s name, or the devil’s, were men killing each other like this on the fields of France, so that human life was of no more value than that of vermin slaughtered ruthlessly?  Each one of the German corpses whose flesh was roasting under those oily clouds of smoke had been a young man with bright hopes, and a gift of laughter, and some instincts of love in his heart.  At least he had two eyes and a nose, and other features common to the brotherhood of man.  Was there really the mark of the beast upon him so that he should be killed at sight, without pity?  I wondered if in that roasting mass of human flesh were any of the men who had been kind to me in Germany—­the young poet whose wife had plucked roses for me in her garden, and touched them with her lips and said, “Take them to England with my love”; or the big Bavarian professor who had shared his food with me in the hills above Adrianople; or any of the Leipzig students who had clinked glasses with me in the beer-halls.

It was Germany’s guilt—­this war.  Well, I could not read all the secrets of our Foreign Office for twenty years or more to know with what tact or tactlessness, with what honesty or charity, or with what arrogance or indifference our statesmen had dealt with Germany’s claims or Germany’s aspirations.  But at least I knew, as I watched those smouldering death-fires, that no individual corpse among them could be brought in guilty of the crime which had caused this war, and that not a soul hovering above that mass of meat could be made responsible at the judgment seat of God.  They had obeyed orders, they had marched to the hymn of the Fatherland, they believed, as we did, in the righteousness of their cause.  But like the dead bodies of the Frenchmen and the Englishmen who lay quite close, they had been done to death by the villainy of statecraft and statesmen, playing one race against another as we play with pawns in a game of chess.  The old witchcraft was better than this new witchcraft, and not so fraudulent in its power of duping the ignorant masses.

My guide had no such sentiment.  As he led me through a fringe of forest land he told me his own adventures, and heaped curses upon the enemy.

He had killed one of them with his own hand.  As he was walking on the edge of a wood a Solitary Uhlan came riding over the fields, below the crest of a little hill.  He was one of the outposts of the strong force in Crepy-en-Valois, and had lost his way to that town.  He demanded guidance, and to point his remarks pricked his lance at the chest of the garde champetre.

But the peasant had been a soldier, and he held a revolver in the side pocket of his jacket.  He answered civilly, but shot through his pocket and killed the man at the end of the lance.  The Uhlan fell from his horse, and the peasant seized his lance and carbine as souvenirs of a happy moment.

But the moment was brief.  A second later and the peasant was sick with fear for what he had done.  If it should be discovered that he, a civilian, had killed a German soldier, every living thing in his village would be put to the sword—­and among those living things were his wife and little ones.