to a minimum the sense of strangeness and friction which is inevitable in the transition from one rule to another.  The interesting point was that this exercise of tact and tolerance seemed to proceed not from any pressure of expediency but from a sympathetic understanding of the point of view of this people of the border.  I heard in Dannemarie not a syllable of lyrical patriotism or post-card sentimentality, but only a kindly and impartial estimate of facts as they were and must be dealt with.

August 18th.

Today again we started early for the mountains.  Our road ran more to the westward, through the heart of the Vosges, and up to a fold of the hills near the borders of Lorraine.  We stopped at a Head-quarters where a young officer of dragoons was to join us, and learned from him that we were to be allowed to visit some of the first-line trenches which we had looked out on from a high-perched observation post on our former visit to the Vosges.  Violent fighting was going on in that particular region, and after a climb of an hour or two we had to leave the motor at a sheltered angle of the road and strike across the hills on foot.  Our path lay through the forest, and every now and then we caught a glimpse of the high-road running below us in full view of the German batteries.  Presently we reached a point where the road was screened by a thick growth of trees behind which an observation post had been set up.  We scrambled down and looked through the peephole.  Just below us lay a valley with a village in its centre, and to the left and right of the village were two hills, the one scored with French, the other with German trenches.  The village, at first sight, looked as normal as those through which we had been passing; but a closer inspection showed that its steeple was shattered and that some of its houses were unroofed.  Part of it was held by German, part by French troops.  The cemetery adjoining the church, and a quarry just under it, belonged to the Germans; but a line of French trenches ran from the farther side of the church up to the French batteries on the right hand hill.  Parallel with this line, but starting from the other side of the village, was a hollow lane leading up to a single tree.  This lane was a German trench, protected by the guns of the left hand hill; and between the two lay perhaps fifty yards of ground.  All this was close under us; and closer still was a slope of open ground leading up to the village and traversed by a rough cart-track.  Along this track in the hot sunshine little French soldiers, the size of tin toys, were scrambling up with bags and loads of faggots, their ant-like activity as orderly and untroubled as if the two armies had not lain trench to trench a few yards away.  It was one of those strange and contradictory scenes of war that bring home to the bewildered looker-on the utter impossibility of picturing how the thing really happens.