It was a day of pure Italian colour, that 6th of July, 1918, when I set out from among those lovely Colline Euganie towards the front among the Alps. First along broad, well-kept roads, through the plains of Veneto, where trellised vine hung heavy laden, past homesteads, villas of warm ochre hues or red, or pink, and all embowered in rich green foliage. Through the narrow winding streets of graceful Vicenza, across the arcaded market-place of old Verona, past the stately ruins of Montecchio, till the road reached the foothills of the Alps. Then up by hairpin turns, gaining an ever wider view of the vast plain lying in a morning haze beyond which you knew was Venice and the blue Adriatic, then down by winding ways into a valley. An outpost in Italian field-grey uniform, not men of the Italian type, but stocky, fair-haired and square-jawed, their collars decorated with red and white tabs. Every group displayed a wreath, within it an effigy of John Hus, for these soldiers were of the Czecho-Slovak Legion, and they were for the first time in their lives allowed to commemorate without let or hindrance the anniversary of their national hero's death. On this day five centuries ago John Hus had met death at the stake for holding to his religious convictions. Trusting in the word of an Emperor who had promised him a safe conduct back to his own country, John Hus had gone to Constance to defend his faith. Rome proved all-powerful, prevailed against the promise of an Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, and John Hus perished, on his lips, they say, the words, "O Sancta Simplicitas!" But his memory lives, and most surely amongst those of simple faith. We do not observe the memory of those who suffered martyrdom for England's spiritual freedom; by the way, there is in Bohemia a church dedicated to St. Thomas à Becket. I am describing the space between Town Hall and Cathedral as a square, which is as about as accurate as the German name "Altstädter Ring." The Czech name for it is easier to pronounce than most of their words. Czech is an immensely difficult language, and I still marvel at the clever inhabitants of the country who pronounce it with ease--even with great fluency. They can make jokes in it too, for the pleasant sound of laughter is often heard in this "City Beautiful." I have never tackled a Czech joke, but am quite prepared to give it credit for all the wit and humour required of a joke, and as long as somebody is happy over it all is well, and I smile with him. [Illustration: THE TOWER OF OUR LADY OF TYN.]