them, and when some favourite comrade goes, the men scorning ephemeral tributes, club together to buy a monstrous indestructible wreath with emblazoned streamers.  It was near the end of the afternoon, and many soldiers were strolling along the paths between the graves.  “It’s their favourite walk at this hour,” the Colonel said.  He stopped to look down on a grave smothered in beady tokens, the grave of the last pal to fall.  “He was mentioned in the Order of the Day,” the Colonel explained; and the group of soldiers standing near looked at us proudly, as if sharing their comrade’s honour, and wanting to be sure that we understood the reason of their pride...

“And now,” said our Captain of Chasseurs, “that you’ve seen the second-line trenches, what do you say to taking a look at the first?”

We followed him to a point higher up the hill, where we plunged into a deep ditch of red earth—­the “bowel” leading to the first lines.  It climbed still higher, under the wet firs, and then, turning, dipped over the edge and began to wind in sharp loops down the other side of the ridge.  Down we scrambled, single file, our chins on a level with the top of the passage, the close green covert above us.  The “bowel” went twisting down more and more sharply into a deep ravine; and presently, at a bend, we came to a fir-thatched outlook, where a soldier stood with his back to us, his eye glued to a peep-hole in the wattled wall.  Another turn, and another outlook; but here it was the iron-rimmed eye of the mitrailleuse that stared across the ravine.  By this time we were within a hundred yards or so of the German lines, hidden, like ours, on the other side of the narrowing hollow; and as we stole down and down, the hush and secrecy of the scene, and the sense of that imminent lurking hatred only a few branch-lengths away, seemed to fill the silence with mysterious pulsations.  Suddenly a sharp noise broke on them:  the rap of a rifle-shot against a tree-trunk a few yards ahead.

“Ah, the sharp-shooter,” said our guide.  “No more talking, please—­he’s over there, in a tree somewhere, and whenever he hears voices he fires.  Some day we shall spot his tree.”

We went on in silence to a point where a few soldiers were sitting on a ledge of rock in a widening of the “bowel.”  They looked as quiet as if they had been waiting for their bocks before a Boulevard cafe.

“Not beyond, please,” said the officer, holding me back; and I stopped.

Here we were, then, actually and literally in the first lines!  The knowledge made one’s heart tick a little; but, except for another shot or two from our arboreal listener, and the motionless intentness of the soldier’s back at the peep-hole, there was nothing to show that we were not a dozen miles away.

Perhaps the thought occurred to our Captain of Chasseurs; for just as I was turning back he said with his friendliest twinkle:  “Do you want awfully to go a little farther?  Well, then, come on.”