horseback, or on muleback was woven into highway and forest path, and to mind came immortal verses, of which I changed two words: Know’st thou the mountain-bridge that hangs on cloud? _Blue men_ in mist grope o’er the torrent loud. In caves lie coiled the dragon’s ancient brood. For do not everywhere “in caves” great guns “lie coiled” whose “ancient brood” are these munition-heaps spawned upon the mountain-side? [Illustration: AMERICAN TROOPS AT MASEVAUX CELEBRATING THE FOURTH OF JULY] [Illustration: FRENCH TROOPS AT MASEVAUX CELEBRATING THE FALL OF THE BASTILE, JULY 14TH] Up, still up, past a long convoy of munitions and food mounting slowly and heavily to the sacrificial Hartmannswillerkopf, which seems like a great altar under whose stone lie many saints—and the number of its cemeteries is one hundred and thirteen, while God alone knows the unnamed, unnumbered graves, and those yet to be dug. I find that rarely do the bones of soldiers travel far, and so it should be, for what spot, even of a father’s inheritance, is so truly his as that where he has fallen? No litigation of man can despoil him of it, and even when he and his deeds are forgotten it is still his. So let him lie. Everywhere from the forest came strong, damp odors of things fugitive and deciduous. The violently released sap of shell-splintered and broken trees mingled its odors with that other natural smell of falling leaf. Lush mosses exuding still deeper, earthier odors were folded about the broken shafts in soft, green velvet swathings. And some of these forest wounds were new, some old and almost healed, like the human griefs of the war. At a sharp turn in the road we leave the motor, passing on foot many camouflaged dugouts, and, somewhat breathless, reach the collection of low wooden huts known as “Camp Wagram.” Each little building has layers of fresh pine branches on its roof, and its sides are painted in piebald or zebra-like patterns. We were shown into the dugout of the commandant, commanding the 363d Infantry, whom we found writing at a little pine table. He received us smiling, and not surprised, our visit having been announced by telephone. A smallish man with very attentive eyes, whose quiet exterior and strong Burgundy accent cover, I am told, a heart of gold, together with quick judgment and complete fearlessness. He gives me a military cape to replace my heavy fur coat, and we start out to Camp Meudon, farther up, where we are presented to another commandant who is frankly, though politely, surprised to see a woman where no woman has been.