"Lieutenant, you know, without doubt, that we have had one of our men killed but a short while ago. We are going to bury him at sunrise. Unfortunately we have no one to play the organ--Figon is in the trenches--you will be very kind to play something for us." "Good; you can count on me." * * * * * All night long the sight of distant Bruges and the death of the poor Territorial haunt me. I am seated before the piano in our "Villa" where we have installed our entire _ménage_. I begin to improvise a melody, sweet and infinitely sad and the theme recurs again and again, developing into a funeral chant--yes, very soon I will play that for him---- * * * * * Toward dawn a man comes to find me. It is very calm outside and the sector has a sleepy air. I enter the church where can be seen large breaches in the walls and roof. A coffin hastily constructed, and covered with the Tricolor, red, white and blue, is in the choir, resting on two wooden supports. The organ is at its side, so close, so close, that I see the man's blood, which flows drop by drop, through the boards of the rudely built coffin--a brilliant red spot glistens on the white flagstone. A few men of the 16th and some stretcher-bearers are kneeling in the nave; others arrive one by one, helmet in hand, without noise---- Scarcely had the service commenced and the priest begun his chant for the dead, than German and French shells screaming, pass over the church, as if they were searching for each other in the air. The shots progressed angrily, followed by their plaintive mewing. At the offertory, I played the sad melody on the organ I had improvised during the night. I put all my heart and emotion into it. But soon everything seemed to grow dark within me--saw in the distance the towers of Bruges and, close, a coffin and a sheet of blood---- "_Dies irae, Dies illa_----" ON PATROL BEFORE ST. GEORGES. _May_, 1915. Before starting out I have taken my automatic pistol out of its scabbard and slipped it in my pocket. I must go to the other side of the canal to the farm of the "Dead Cow." An ensign from the cruiser X---- accompanies me with a dozen or so men. Two of my sappers go along to aid the installation over there of an infernal machine. As German patrols reconnoiter the farm it will be a good turn at their game---- As darkness falls we tumble into a boat and cross the evacuation canal. All this is done with marked silence. We creep along revolver in hand. There is no one in the ruins of the farm. The patrol spreads itself around us, and during this interval, with my two _poilus_, I install the snare for the boches! The work ended, we fall silently back. Not a shot! We have returned to our lines without an incident! LADY DOROTHY, THE GREAT DUNE. _May_, 1915.