Thus has it always been. The race has carried on by dimly understood, irrational traditions that move men to the profoundest depths and challenge elemental impulses that have descended in transmuted ancestral determinism, we know not how or why. And if we are to endure, it must be by these same primal emotions, that cause men the world over to scorn soft ease and security for the sake of a vague, inexplicable ideal; inchoate conceptions of service; passionate, stirring impulses lacking definition, which are born with life itself, reach down to the bottommost depth of nature and transcend all feeble efforts of analysis and artificial ratiocination. So it came that the momentous bridge at Verst Four Fifty Eight stood fast, and the Bolshevik attack beat against an unyielding rock until it spent itself by its own fury. Then the position was consolidated, Allied headquarters moved nearly three miles down the railbed, and the dead, in order that there might be no interruption of the renewed offensive, were laid away in white Obozerskaya churchyard, beneath rough crosses of wood, such harsh emblems of life's surcease, and so fitting in this inflexible, cold, repellent north world. After a fortnight of more scheming and preparation, the forest was carefully reconnoitered, a path that could be traversed was found through the swamps, in a three cornered attack, the Allied position advanced to Verst Four Fifty Five; and pressing on, the Americans and French went forward to still further battle. But now occurred an event more baneful to the Expedition than all the enemy attacks. The month was only October, but in some mysterious way, the French had already received word of the pending Armistice, and entirely unmoved by the disaster that might befall their abandoned comrades, the whole French company quit the front and went back to Obozerskaya in an ugly mood. "The war is over in France," they argued, "why should we be fighting here in Russia when France has declared no war on Russia or the Bolsheviki?" Ninety of the mutineers were placed under arrest, and returned to Archangel for confinement. It is not known whether or not the Bolsheviks were directly apprised of the mutiny, but hardly had the French retired, when the enemy artillery laid down a shaking barrage, and when night came, the lone group of Americans were standing off a great horde of Bolo infantry that only waited for dawn to continue an overwhelming assault. Clearings occurred at intervals of several miles all along the Vologda railway. Usually they were in the shape of large squares, a half mile or more across, with log stations, several woodchoppers' houses in the center, and near them piles of corded pine to feed the wood burning locomotives. The next day when the supports came up they nearly blundered on a large Bolshevik force massed for a surprise attack in one of these clearings.