“I was nearly a casualty,” confessed Bobby modestly.

“How?”

“That first shell of ours nearly knocked my head off!  I was standing up at the time, and it rather took me by surprise.  It just cleared the parados.  In fact, it kicked a lot of gravel into the back of my neck.”

“Most people get it in the neck here, sooner or later,” remarked Captain Blaikie sententiously.  “Personally, I don’t much mind being killed, but I do bar being buried alive.  That is why I dislike Minnie so.”  He rose, and stretched himself.  “Heigho!  I suppose it’s about time we detailed patrols and working parties for to-night.  What a lovely sky!  A truly peaceful atmosphere—­what?  It gives one a sort of Sunday-evening feeling, somehow.”

“May I suggest an explanation?” said Wagstaffe.

“By all means.”

“It is Sunday evening!”

Captain Blaikie whistled gently, and said—­

“By Jove, so it is.”  Then, after a pause:  “This time last Sunday—­”

Last Sunday had been an off-day—­a day of cloudless summer beauty.  Tired men had slept; tidy men had washed their clothes; restless men had wandered at ease about the countryside, careless of the guns which grumbled everlastingly a few miles away.  There had been impromptu Church Parades for each denomination, in the corner of a wood which was part of the demesne of a shell-torn chateau.

It is a sadly transformed wood.  The open space before the chateau, once a smooth expanse of tennis-lawn, is now a dusty picketing-ground for transport mules, destitute of a single blade of grass.  The ornamental lake is full of broken bottles and empty jam-tins.  The pagoda-like summer-house, so inevitable to French chateau gardens, is a quartermaster’s store.  Half the trees have been cut down for fuel.  Still, the July sun streams very pleasantly through the remainder, and the Psalms of David float up from beneath their shade quite as sweetly as they usually do from the neighbourhood of the precentor’s desk in the kirk at home—­perhaps sweeter.

The wood itself is a point d’appui, or fortified post.  One has to take precautions, even two or three miles behind the main firing line.  A series of trenches zigzags in and out among the trees, and barbed wire is interlaced with the undergrowth.  In the farthermost corner lies an improvised cemetery.  Some of the inscriptions on the little wooden crosses are only three days old.  Merely to read a few of these touches the imagination and stirs the blood.  Here you may see the names of English Tommies and Highland Jocks, side by side with their Canadian kith and kin.  A little apart lie more graves, surmounted by epitaphs written in strange characters, such as few white men can read.  These are the Indian troops.  There they lie, side by side—­the mute wastage of war, but a living testimony, even in their last sleep, to the breadth and unity of the British Empire.  The great, machine-made Empire of Germany can show no such graves:  when her soldiers die, they sleep alone.