Outside, the cannon roar and the shells fall like hail around the cantonment. Great shells tear up the ground with their gigantic blows. War, horrors, blood, ruins, fear, the attack which is near at hand, death perhaps, all that exists no longer for them. It is all of no consequence to them; the air of their natal song transports them. These men shut up in dark cellars, in dugouts, shaken by the terrific hammering of shells, are transported by their dream to the bright sunshine, the bright and cheerful atmosphere of their southern plains. They sing, and at once they are living again the life of their homeland. Their “little” country dominates them and makes them valiant and strong in the midst of the sorrows all about to attack and stand up in defense of the Great!... I go out with my nerves on edge and my eyes full of tears before the unearthly beauty of the scene. Streaks of light from the stuffed air-holes alone let me realize that men in large numbers wait there underground for a signal to dash into the fiery furnace.... I walk to the end of the village to the officers’ quarters to calm my nerves. Voices still rise in song on both sides of the road. There, under my feet in a ruin—so martyred that one might think it was an acropolis raising prayers of stone to heaven—a chorus of warm voices scans the joyous song, _Qué cantès, qué recantès_ _Cantès pas per iev,_ _Cantès per ma mia_ _Qu’es auprès de iev._ Here are the lads of Languedoc, Nîmes, Montpellier, the vine growers of the plains, the carters of Aiguesmortes, the harvesters of Toulouse all carried away by the evocation of their homeland. Oh! the beautiful song! How it puts heart into one; more beautiful than the most martial hymn composed in the harsh technique of the ink pots. It is the living expression, simple, spontaneous, natural, of the people, the family and the soil. It carries in it the remembrances of happy childhood, of loves bathed in sunshine, the radiant nuptials in the mystery of light and flowers. It speaks of the loved pastures, the paternal roof, the farm, the herds, the vines ... and that is the Patrie. Oh! the beautiful song! It dissipates dark thoughts, fears, uncertainties; it makes lovers and heroes, electrifies them, and increases their strength a hundred fold. They are the lads of Provence and Languedoc who spread through the world the triumphal “Marseillaise.” They are the same lads who despite the mud and the dark night breathe in their memory and in the song the re-vivifying breath of their “little” country, who in pursuit of the routed enemy make the “Marseillaise” victorious again, victorious alway. At the end of the village in a house at the side of the road to Chuignolles, a feeble light filters through the canvas which takes the place of shutters.