* * * * * To-night we buried a dragoon belonging to the 16th, who had been killed some days before in the course of a reconnaissance. The body was already at the cemetery, covered with earth, and we brought the coffin, carried by two soldier grave-diggers. It preceded, by some paces, the silent cortège formed by the Captain, M. Chatelin, the priest, two non-commissioned officers and myself. We crossed the canal bridge a little before midnight. A sentry, petrified by cold, asked us for the countersign, which was given, and we went on our way, avoiding the white patches of moonlight which might have betrayed our presence. The rusted gate of the cemetery creaked lamentably as we entered onto the holy ground that the shells had failed to respect. They had hollowed monstrous and gaping graves that yawned under our feet, laying bare, completely or partially, the skeletons and corpses. A stiff north wind was blowing, bending the slim shrubs and agitating the grass and the rotten crosses as in a danse macabre. It was the devil of a night, and I admit that we all shivered, preferring the risks of a charge in full daylight to this sinister and furtive work. Every two or three minutes a star shell traced a lovely curve of diamonds in the sky, and, instinctively, we put our heads down in silence. Four men dug the grave. We uncovered the poor body, which had been covered with a thin layer of earth. It had been wrapped up in sacking, like the big quarters of beef that are unloaded from the supply carts when rations are given out. It was the most lamentable thing I have ever seen. Everything was hurried through in a few minutes. The coffin was too big. The Captain put into it an envelope containing the name of the soldier who was going to rest there between the lines, and who would be crooned to sleep by the noise of shells. The wind shook the surplice of the priest who recited the prayers, and I heard only a confused murmur of odd phrases, for the wind carried off the rest. We had to hurry, for the quiet moments were rare, and we returned through the dark deserted streets in impressive silence. _Nieuport, 29th January, 1915._—To form an exact idea of what this very peculiar war is like one must have lived the twenty-four hours that I have just passed through—a bitterly cold winter’s day and night. We set out to occupy the first line trenches at 4 o’clock. The night was clear and frosty, and the stars glittered like splinters of ice. A clear and cold moon lit up the immensity of the ravaged and desolated plain, making the ice glitter, silhouetting the traitorous and dangerous ruins, betraying our position by the glint from our bayonets, while the frost-bound ground conducted sound to a great distance.