“The bits of shrapnel from the anti-aircraft guns firing at the aeroplanes make more victims than the bombs,” said another. Miss Worthington appeared at that moment, but decided, however, to go back to bed. I went out into the hot streets; the early sun was shining in a faultless sky. The _Foyer des Alliés_ had been hastily evacuated at the _alerte_, according to orders, so I asked for the nearest church, where I could sit down in peace, or comparative peace, out of the glare and the heat, not to mention the enemy airplanes. I was directed up the principal street, told to turn down by the river, and was proceeding under the dusty poplars to the church of St.-Jean, when suddenly some beauty of the morning touched my face and a feeling almost of joy succeeded the fatigue of the night. I was turned from thoughts of men going to their doom, and destruction coming from the lovely sky, and I could receive only the morning light, and the glory of the shining river and the rolling hills was for the moment mine; and I saw how “dying, they are not dead.” ... Mass was over when I got to church, but I sat down, crossed myself, and commended, with a suddenly quiet heart, the world of battle to its God, and then, instead of _un_lacing my shoes in the sanctuary, I proceeded to lace them _up_, having walked from my abode with the laces tied about my ankles; it wasn’t as sloppy as it sounds, considering what was going on overhead. But I found myself thinking of praying-carpets, and rows of sandals outside of dim mosques, and things and ways far from Bar-le-Duc. After twenty minutes of a somewhat hazy contemplation of other than war mysteries, I went back to the canteen. Betwixt the time I had left it and my return a bomb had fallen between it and the station; a large piece of roof had been removed from the station, and a very neat nick had been made in the corner of the canteen where we kept our hats and coats and hung up our aprons. The street in between looked like an earthquake street. I stood quite still for a second of time—not thinking—you don’t think on such occasions. The Barrisiens, or, in plain English, the Bar-le-Dukites, were engaged in business as usual. I then began the cutting up and buttering of endless large slices of bread, with a Scotchwoman, who has unmodifiable opinions about Americans—any and all Americans. Even when she only remarks, “I saw two new people in town yesterday, _very_ American-looking, _very_,” you feel there’s something the matter with the States, and if you had time you’d get argumentative, even perhaps annoyed. Soldiers were coming in again. To one tired, deep-eyed man, sitting listlessly, with the heavy load slipping, I said: “_Vous avez le cafard,[10] mon ami?_” And he answered, suddenly, as if the words had been ejected by a great force from his soul: “_Je monte demain_—and I can’t bear the sound the bayonet makes going in.”