Tombs . . . tombs on all sides!  The white locusts of death were swarming over the entire countryside.  There was no corner free from their quivering wings.  The recently plowed earth, the yellowing roads, the dark woodland, everything was pulsating in weariless undulation.  The soil seemed to be clamoring, and its words were the vibrations of the restless little flags.  And the thousands of cries, endlessly repeated across the days and nights, were intoning in rhythmic chant the terrible onslaught which this earth had witnessed and from which it still felt tragic shudderings.

“Dead . . . dead,” murmured Chichi, following the rows of crosses incessantly slipping past the sides of the automobile.

“O Lord, for them! . . . for their mothers,” moaned Dona Luisa, renewing her prayers.

Here had taken place the fiercest part of the battle—­the fight in the old way, man to man outside of the trenches, with bayonets, with guns, with fists, with teeth.

The guide who was beginning to get his bearings was pointing out the various points on the desolate horizon.  There were the African sharpshooters; further on, the chasseurs.  The very large groups of graves were where the light infantry had charged with their bayonets on the sides of the road.

The automobile came to a stop.  Rene climbed out after the soldier in order to examine the inscriptions on a few of the crosses.  Perhaps these might have belonged to the regiment they were seeking.  Chichi also alighted mechanically with the irresistible desire of aiding her husband.

Each grave contained several men.  The number of bodies within could be told by the mouldering kepis or rusting helmets hanging on the arms of the cross; the number of the regiments could still be deciphered between the rows of ants crawling over the caps.  The wreaths with which affection had adorned some of the sepulchres were blackened and stripped of their leaves.  On some of the crucifixes, the names of the dead were still clear, but others were beginning to fade out and soon would be entirely illegible.

“What a horrible death! . . .  What glory!” thought Chichi sadly.

Not even the names of the greater part of these vigorous men cut down in the strength of their youth were going to survive!  Nothing would remain but the memory which would from time to time overwhelm some old countrywoman driving her cow along the French highway, murmuring between her sobs.  “My little one! . . .  I wonder where they buried my little one!” Or, perhaps, it would live in the heart of the village woman clad in mourning who did not know how to solve the problem of existence; or in the minds of the children going to school in black blouses and saying with ferocious energy—­“When I grow up I am going to kill the Boches to avenge my father’s death!”

And Dona Luisa, motionless in her seat, followed with her eyes Chichi’s course among the graves, while returning to her interrupted prayer—­“Lord, for the mothers without sons . . . for the little ones without fathers! . . .  May thy wrath not be turned against us, and may thy smile shine upon us once more!”