Here, too, we passed long lines of the carts of the Galician peasantry fleeing from the fear of the German invasion. It strikes one as extraordinary that these inhabitants, many of whose husbands, brothers and fathers are fighting in the Austrian Armies, should take refuge in flight at the rumour of their approach. It is a sad commentary on the reputation of the Germans that even the peoples of their Allies flee at the report of their approach. The name of Prussian down here seems to carry as much terror to the Galician peasant as ever it did to the Belgians or the Poles in other theatres of war. The peasantry are moving out bag and baggage with all the pathos and misery which the abandonment of their homes and lifelong treasures spells to these simple folk. Even ten months’ association with similar scenes does not harden one to the pitifulness of it all. Little children clinging to their toys, mothers, haggard and frightened, nursing babes at their breasts, and fathers and sons urging on the patient, weary, family horse as he tugs despairingly at the overloaded cart weighted down with the pathetic odds and ends of the former home. Tarnopol itself was a great surprise to me. It is a typical Austrian town with a lovely park in the centre and three hotels which are nearly first class. Paved streets, imposing public buildings and a very fine station, besides hundreds of lovely dwelling houses, make a very beautiful little town; and with its setting in the valley, Tarnopol seems an altogether desirable place. Here as elsewhere troops are seething. The station is a military restaurant and emergency hospital combined. One of the waiting-rooms has been turned into an operating and dressing-room, and when there is fighting on at the front the whole place is congested with stretchers and the atmosphere reeks of disinfectants and ether fumes. We stopped here only overnight, for we are bound to the furthest stretch of our front to the south-east. In the evening there came through battalion after battalion of troops swinging through the streets, tired, dirty and battle stained, but, with it all, singing at the top of their lungs. These men were moving from one front to another, and most of them had been fighting for weeks. The first glance was sufficient to make one realize that these troops were certainly not down-hearted. In strong contrast to the Russians was the sight of the latest haul of prisoners which passed through the next morning--several thousand Austrians and two or three hundred Germans.