They are sick of war; war weary and sad.  Yet they will fight on.  The will to fight is outside the individual will; yet it is not the will of the leaders, nor is it the will of the many combined in a common will.  For the many are tired unto death of war.  But for all that they will fight on without flinching.  It is the national will—­the will deeper than the will of leaders, stronger than the molten will of the many in one purpose.  It is the tradition of centuries; it is the unexpressed purpose, perhaps unconscious habit of an old, old people, united far down in the roots of them; not so much by race, for the Franks are of many breeds; not so much by industrial or geographical ties or even political unity, though it approaches that; but bound most surely by the sense of national tradition.  A people is fighting.  From a thousand villages with their primeval temples, with their lovely cathedrals grown out of the hearts of the race buried in the shadow of their spires, from the shining rivers that flow through green pastures, from soft hills rich in folk tales of heroes, come the millions; and from Paris, ever radiant in her venerable youth, come other millions who make this fighting soul of the nation.  What if it grumbles as it fights; it will still fight on.  Of course it is sick of war; but it will not stop.  It is a spirit that is fighting in France, the spirit of a brave people.

We have in France a few hundred thousand men and will soon have a million and more who are offering their lives in Service.  But the whole French nation is giving thus.  And it is without hate.  One finds instead of hatred in France a feeling of deep disgust for the German and all his works.  The spirit of the French is not vicious.  It is beautiful.  When the war ceases that may subside, may retire to the under consciousness of the people.  But it will not depart.  It also will remain eternally a part of the salvage of this war.

By the time the transgression of our car had been sufficiently atoned for, dusk was falling.  And Henry broke away from the gothic arches of the trees and made for a tavern.  He had learned that one must take food in France where he can find it, and ten minutes later we came upon him in front of the inn, talking in a slow loud voice to what was either the inn-keeper’s daughter or his pretty young wife thus:  “I said,” Henry paused and nodded his head and beat the thing in with his hand; “we want some supper—­de jurnay—­toot sweet!” She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders very prettily and said she could not “say pa.”  And Henry laughed and went on, still enunciating each word distinctly.  “Ah, don’t tell us you can’t ‘Say pa’:  say ‘wee wee.’” And again he told her “toot sweet.”  That was the only part of the French language that Henry was entirely sure of—­that and “comb be-ah!” But we could not get it through her head.  So we loaded ourselves into the car and headed back for St. Dizier, where at least they understood Henry’s gestures, and we could get food!