Suddenly, there in front of us, at two paces, splitting the fog is—the village. There are houses—remains of houses—and parts of walls which through some prodigious feat of balance persist in remaining upright. The first house on the right was apparently of some importance. The two master walls still remain in spite of the roof having fallen. Between them is a pile of stones, burnt girders, and in the middle of the heap of rubbish still stands, intact and rigid, pointing straight toward yawning heaven, the iron balustrade of a winding staircase. A great signboard of black wood runs from one wall to the other, apparently holding them together, and one might believe that they only remain upright, thanks to it. It is riddled with bullets and the flames have licked it as they passed, but one can still read the long yellow letters of the inscription: _Lodgings_ _Famous Cuisine_ _Comfortable Rooms_ None of us risk an ironical reflection or a mocking smile, for to-day we have become accustomed to so many strange inscriptions which in disaster are the living lie of their emptiness. Opposite, on the other side of the road, the military cemetery shows its multitude of crosses. Their number has exceeded the capacity of the site provided for it, and they have already become masters of the surrounding fields. These graves are all immutably alike, and they are built and maintained with a fraternal affection by companies of Territorials who hold the cantonments in the neighborhood. Yes, they are all immutably alike. There is always the white wooden cross with the name of the deceased, the number of his regiment, his company and the date of his death in simple black letters. The grave is a small square, bordered by bits of tile or bricks, sometimes by planks or the bottoms of bottles. And on this humble burial place someone has planted primroses. A bottle stuck in the ground by the neck holds a bit of paper on which is written all supplementary information as to identity which will guide the pious pilgrim of to-morrow. Sometimes a perforated helmet or a tattered cap placed on the cross by a comrade who respects his memory tells us that the soldier was wounded in the head. One shudders at some of these helmets, they are rent so grievously. We pass rapidly but religiously through the narrow paths between the graves. It is a sort of duty rather than curiosity which leads us to look over all these cemeteries in search of some known name, a friend’s name, so that we may pay our last respects. * * * * * But time passes. It would not be prudent to stop longer, for already above the neighboring hedge we can hear the sinister “ta-co” of the German bullets. Branches of an apple tree, lopped off by the shells, fall at our feet.