At ten o’clock the branch line came to an end in a cleared space in the forest, and we stepped into a huge tent canteen with a Red Cross sign above the door. Soldiers, a hundred or more, slouched over the tables, slicing off hunks of black bread with their pocket-knives, and washing the bread down with tea drunk from tin cans. They were of the earth, these men. Their dun clothes were heavy with the brown mud of the trenches, their faces weathered to the color of the soil, their tawny hair sun-bleached. Only their eyes, sky-blue or shining black, lifted them out of the monotone. One of them brought us tin cups of steaming tea, and explained that he and his comrades were just out of the first-line trenches. Peter asked him to direct us to the lazaret, which was to provide us with sleeping quarters. He pointed toward the forest, where a thin wisp of gray smoke curled slowly up into the blue sky, and volunteered to take us there. We started across the fields on foot. It was a crisp and clear morning. A recent rain had washed and polished every blade of grass. A little wind stirred gently the feathery tops of the distant pines, and rippled the field of blue corn-flowers, white buckwheat, yellow mustard, and purple clover-bloom. Surely this could not be war--these painted fields, those dark, peaceful woods! The thought had barely registered, when a dull _boom! boom! boom!_ came suddenly to my ears. Peter looked at the soldier and at me. “It’s war, all right,” he said. Beyond the first row of trees we came abruptly upon a cluster of low frame buildings, log cabins, and brush-covered dugouts. From the top of a tiny log bungalow, with blue curtains at the windows, an American flag was flying. A frisking colt kicked up its heels on the edge of the clearing, and a flock of friendly geese came waddling to meet us. We stopped in front of a large building, and a Sister of Mercy in the Russian Red Cross uniform opened the door. She led the way to the dining-room, and ordered coffee with warm milk from the lazaret’s own dairy. Suddenly we heard a whirr above our heads. The nurse ran to the door, excitedly motioning to me to follow. An aëroplane,--a German aëroplane--was outlined against the cloudless sky. A battery opened fire to the right of us, and another to the left. The shots came in quick succession, like the beating of a drum. A tiny cloud of smoke appeared in the wake of the flyer. Another broke just above him. A third and a fourth shell exploded below. The gunners had missed. The German sailed safely on his destructive way. “You had better get inside,” said a Russian doctor, who joined the group. “There will be a shower of shrapnel fragments in a minute.” “We have been rather expecting an aëroplane raid to-day,” he continued, lighting a cigarette. “Our fellows celebrated the victory on the other front yesterday by peppering the Germans with artillery fire, and we thought they might retaliate with bombs.”