I have seen that line at a fair number of places—­since writing these words, many miles away in my billet, working in the brick-floored cottage bedroom by the light of an oil lamp, I have stepped to the door, and there I can see it now, always flickering and flashing like faint summer lightning under the clouds on the horizon.  When you come to the very limit—­to the farthest point which you or any man on earth can possibly reach by yourself—­it is just a strip of green grass from twenty to four hundred yards wide, straggling across France and Belgium from the sea to the Swiss border.  I suppose that French and English men have sanctified every part of that narrow ribbon by dying there.  But the grass of those old paddocks grows unkempt like a shock head of hair.  And it has covered with a kindly mantle most of the terrible relics of the past.  A tuft, perhaps thicker than the rest, is all that marks where last year lay a British soldier whose death represented the latest effort of the world to cross the line the Germans laid.

You cannot even know what is going on in the country beyond that line.  You have to build up a science for deducing it from little signs, as a naturalist might study the habits of a nest of ants.  The Germans are probably much more successful at that than we are.

It is strange to us that there are towns and cities over there only a few miles away from us, and for a hundred miles back from that, of whose life we know nothing except that they have been ravished and ruined by the heavy hand of Prussian militarism.  But, for the people who live around us here, it is a tragedy of which I had not the least conception until I actually saw it.

We had a cup of coffee the other day in the house of an old lady whose husband had been called out two years ago, a few days after the war began.

“All my own people are over there, monsieur,” she said, nodding her head towards the lines.  “They were all living in the invaded country, and I have not heard of them for eighteen months.  I do not know whether they are alive or dead.  I only know that they are all ruined.  They were farmers, monsieur, comfortably off on a big farm.  But consider the fines that the Boches have put upon the country.

“The only thing we know, monsieur, it was from a cousin who was taken prisoner by the Boches.  You know we are allowed to write to the prisoners, and they have the privilege to write to people in the invaded country.  So my family wrote to my cousin to ask news of my mother, who was a very old woman.  And after weeks and weeks the answer came back—­’Mother dead.’

“It was not so terrible that, monsieur, because my mother was old.  But then—­he who was my dear friend,” she always referred to her husband by this term, “my dear friend used to write to us every day in those times.  He was fighting in Alsace, monsieur, and for his bravery he had been promoted upon the field of battle to be an officer.  He wrote every single day to me and the children.  We were always so united—­never a harsh word between us during all the years we were married—­he was always gentle and tender and affectionate—­a good husband and father, monsieur, and he sent the letter every day to my brother-in-law, who is a soldier in Paris, and my brother-in-law sent it on to us.