Our Arab camel convoys, on a new-made road parallel with a strategic railway, traversed by electric locomotives—East and West together!--lent an air of romance to this period of service. But it was counterbalanced by a severe reality, for on occasions we marched at 7 a.m. with the thermometer at 100 degrees. And a padre's Sunday, beginning with the first church parade at 5 a.m. and conducting others at various posts among the sand-dunes, was a day which left one more conscious of reality than romance. An atmosphere of romantic interest hangs about our French campaign. The scene changes, and for the white-robed hosts following Saladin or Mehemet Ali, for the bronzed warriors who followed Cambyses, Alexander the Great, Rameses II, for the Red and Blue arrayed against each other under Napoleon or Abercromby, we have to exchange the chivalry and battle represented by such names as Poictiers, Cressy, or Waterloo. In our fleet of six transports, our division _en route_ had to _watch_ and pray, wearing a lifebelt always. We steamed into a bay of Malta on a Sunday morning. This gave us another memory of Paul, and we had to speak of his shipwreck and landing there. Arriving in La Belle France, we realize that it is a land of chivalry and romance. We move under the banner of Joan of Arc, and fight on old battle-fields. Every town has its storied past; but this is no war of chivalry, and our battalions do not flaunt the banners of heraldry. The reality is cold mud, dripping dug-outs, and hard fighting night and day; and yet over all are the crossed flags of the two most romantic and adventurous races in the world—the British and the French. The achievements both of Napoleon and Wellington call us, the one to the path of glory and the other to the path of duty; and a second greater Waterloo awaits us as victors in the struggle for the freedom of Europe. At this time we may still hear the ringing cry of Henry V at Harfleur in our English ears: 'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head, Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it As fearfully as doth a gallèd rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide; Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height!--On, on, you noblest English.' VI THE GOD OF BATTLES