“British recruits, practising passing a whispered order from one end of a trench to the other, received this message to pass along:  ’Enemy advancing on right flank.  Send re-enforcements.’  When the message reached the other end of the trench,” he said, “it was:  ’Enemy advancing with ham shank.  Send three and fourpence!’”

It was a gay little meal, the only breaks in the conversation when the great guns drowned out our voices.  I wonder how many of those round that table are living to-day.  Not all, it is almost certain.  The German Army almost broke through the English line at that very point in the late spring.  The brave Canadians have lost almost all their officers in the field and a sickening percentage of their men.  That little valley must have run deep with blood since I saw it that day in the sunlight.

Luncheon was over.  I wrote my name in the visitors’ book, to the tune of such a bombardment as almost forbade speech, and accompanied by General H——­ we made our way down the steep hillside to the car.

“Some time to-night I shall be in England,” I said as I settled myself for the return trip.

The smile died on the general’s face.  It was as if, in speaking of home, I had touched the hidden chord of gravity and responsibility that underlay the cheerfulness of that cheery visit.

“England!” he said.  That was all.

I looked back as the car started on.  A battery was moving up along the road behind the hill.  The sentry stood by his low painted tent.  The general was watching the car, his hand shading his eyes against the glare of the winter sun.  Behind him rose his lonely hill, white with snow, with the little path leading, by devious ways, up its steep and shining side.

It was not considered advisable to return by the road behind the trenches.  The late afternoon artillery duel was going on.  So we turned off a few miles south of the hill and left war behind us.

Not altogether, of course.  There were still transports and troops.  And at an intersection of three roads we were abruptly halted.  A line of military cars was standing there, all peremptorily held up by a handful of soldiers.

The young officer got out and inquired.  There was little time to spare, for I was to get to Calais that evening, and to run the Channel blockade some time in the night.

The officer came back soon, smiling.

“A military secret!” he said.  “We shall have to wait a little.  The road is closed.”

So I sat in the car and the military secret went by.  I cannot tell about it except that it was thrillingly interesting.  My hands itched to get out my camera and photograph it, just as they itch now to write about it.  But the mystery of what I saw on the highroad back of the British lines is not mine to tell.  It must die with me!

My visit to the British lines was over.