While the battle rages before us, our prayers go out to the heroes who are suffering and dying so near at hand. Each cannon-shot, as we think of the bloody trail it ploughs in its path, is like a stab in the heart. And my thoughts are with the wounded as they try to crawl out of reach of bullets, huddling in a furrow, crouching behind a bush. Some of them with their little remaining strength write on the back of an old envelope their last farewells. The vision of my brother rises before me. He is bleeding, near unto death. He calls for help. Every movement that he makes wrings from him a groan. By a superhuman effort, goaded on by the thought of his children and his longing to see them again, he succeeds in dragging himself to the banks of the Marne, in the hope of finding help. To assuage his fever he tries to dip his hand in the cool water. But his arm refuses to obey. His hand is rigid. No one to aid him. Shattered, weak, he lies there waiting--waiting for the help that never comes. I am in despair. Surely there are wounded men in agony on the banks of the Marne. If anyone would go with me, perhaps we could organize some sort of relief work. But how are we to get to the other side of the river? All the fishing boats, even the wash boat, have been sunk by the English. Can we do nothing but stand waiting here--useless--helpless? [Illustration: The road leading away from the Château de Condé across the bridge over the Grand Morin, looking away from the château] My brother's little girls are playing peacefully at our side. Like them, we are calm. Not for a moment are we afraid. Without saying a word to each other, we seem to think the same thoughts, and we remain at our post until evening, with full confidence. But our emotion is very great. To what merciful providence do we owe our certainty that the enemy will not reach us, and the tranquillity with which we await the end of this tragedy? I confess that I do not understand. One by one the stars break through the veil of darkness that comes down gently upon us. Now myriads of stars are shining in the heavens. It is eleven o'clock. Houses are in flames, and forests. Here and there in the distance camp-fires are burning and trench-rockets burst in showers, making the valley seem like a great fiery furnace, an ocean of flame. How insignificant are our own troubles in the presence of these heaped up ruins, this destruction of men and things! On the highest tree of the Aulnois woods I have just seen a little light, square in shape, which alternately appears and disappears. X 6 September, 1914.