There is no one day of which you can say: "My youth ended then. On the Monday the ball of my vision had eagles that flew unabashed to the sun. On the Tuesday it hadn't." The season of rapture goes out like a tide that has turned; a time has come when the mud flats are bare; but, long after the ebb has set in, any wave that has taken a special strength of its own from some combination of flukes out at sea may cover them up for a moment--may even throw itself far up the beach, making as if to recapture the lost high-water mark. So the youth of our war had its feints at renewal, hours of Indian summer when there was wine again in the air; in the "bare, ruined choirs" a lated golden auriole would strike up once more for a while, before leaving. Because hope does spring eternal the evening before a great battle must always make fires leap up in the mind. The calm before Thermopylæ, the rival camps on the night before Agincourt, the ball before Waterloo--not without reason have writers of genius, searching for glimpses of life in its most fugitive acme of bloom, the poised and just breaking crest of the wave, gone to places and times of the kind. For there the wits and the heart may be really astir and at gaze, and the common man may have, for the hour, the artist's vision of life as an adventure and challenge, lovely, harsh, fleeting, and strange. The great throw, the new age's impending nativity, Fate with her fingers approaching the veil, about to lift--a sense of these things is a drug as strong as strychnine to quicken the failing pulse of the most heart-weary of moribund raptures. We all had the dope in our wine on the night of August 7, 1918. At daybreak our troops to the east of Amiens would second the first blow of Foch at the German salient towards Paris, the giant arm that was now left sticking out into the air to be hit; its own smashing blow had been struck without killing; its first strength was spent; the spirit behind it was cracking; now, in its moment of check, of lost momentum, of risky extension, now to have at it and smash it. The bull had rushed right on to gore us and missed; we had his flank to stab now.