All night as I ride, there burns in my brain the picture of that refugee French girl with her fatherless child, journeying with us towards the Calvary from which all the civilian world is fleeing. She is escaping towards death. And I think of another mother, no less a soldier-woman, who fled by Eastern highways that she might bring her son back to the death from which she fled, in order that men might live better. Suzette! Why does she accompany us? She knows that we need her love, perhaps. That knowledge brings her very near to the peasant mother of Nazareth. IV THE dawn stole upon us like a ghost. It ran beside us, fell behind, dashed on ahead, following and peering from behind trees and ruins. Along the endless road we crawled, weary and spent. The gunners had been ordered to dismount from the limbers to ease the horses’ load. The out-riders and officers for the sake of example, had also dismounted and walked ahead of their chargers. All talking had ceased. We stumbled forward like somnambulists, pale and heavy-eyed. Had anyone been told that we were storm-troops, Foch’s Pets, the hammerhead of the attack, moving up to smash the Hun line, he would have laughed. We looked listless, washed out. Now and then a man would ask an officer, “How much further, sir?” The officer would reply, “I don’t know. Not much further, I should think.” The man’s head would sag forward again on his breast. In the army there is no complaining, no going on strike: one carries on and on til he drops. To carry on, however harsh the demands, and not to drop is one’s pride.