they do about a death-bed.  Over a break in the walls I saw another gutted farmhouse close by in another orchard:  it was an enemy outpost, and silent watchers in helmets of another shape sat there watching on the same high shelves.  But all this was infinitely less real and terrible than the cannonade above the disputed village.  The artillery had ceased and the air was full of summer murmurs.  Close by on a sheltered ledge I saw a patch of vineyard with dewy cobwebs hanging to the vines.  I could not understand where we were, or what it was all about, or why a shell from the enemy outpost did not suddenly annihilate us.  And then, little by little, there came over me the sense of that mute reciprocal watching from trench to trench:  the interlocked stare of innumerable pairs of eyes, stretching on, mile after mile, along the whole sleepless line from Dunkerque to Belfort.

My last vision of the French front which I had traveled from end to end was this picture of a shelled house where a few men, who sat smoking and playing cards in the sunshine, had orders to hold out to the death rather than let their fraction of that front be broken.

THE TONE OF FRANCE

Nobody now asks the question that so often, at the beginning of the war, came to me from the other side of the world:  “What is France like?" Every one knows what France has proved to be like:  from being a difficult problem she has long since become a luminous instance.

Nevertheless, to those on whom that illumination has shone only from far off, there may still be something to learn about its component elements; for it has come to consist of many separate rays, and the weary strain of the last year has been the spectroscope to decompose them.  From the very beginning, when one felt the effulgence as the mere pale brightness before dawn, the attempt to define it was irresistible.  “There is a tone—­” the tingling sense of it was in the air from the first days, the first hours—­“but what does it consist in?  And just how is one aware of it?” In those days the answer was comparatively easy.  The tone of France after the declaration of war was the white glow of dedication:  a great nation’s collective impulse (since there is no English equivalent for that winged word, elan ) to resist destruction.  But at that time no one knew what the resistance was to cost, how long it would have to last, what sacrifices, material and moral, it would necessitate.  And for the moment baser sentiments were silenced:  greed, self-interest, pusillanimity seemed to have been purged from the race.  The great sitting of the Chamber, that almost religious celebration of defensive union, really expressed the opinion of the whole people.  It is fairly easy to soar to the empyrean when one is carried on the wings of such an impulse, and when one does not know how long one is to be kept suspended at the breathing-limit.