But there is one thing that you can understand at the first glance, and which adds to the grim horror of the whole scene, and that is the inclosures sprinkled here and there, the wooden fences that shut in closely packed groups of poor little burial crosses, made of two pieces of wood. That you can tell at once, alas! and see exactly what it is! Here they lie, therefore, under the thunder of the big guns, as though the battle was not yet finished for them, our dear departed ones, our unknown, magnificent heroes--whom even those who weep for them cannot now come nigh, because death is passing ceaselessly in the air above their silent little gatherings. Ah! To complete the unreality of it all, here comes a black bird of gigantic wing-stretch, a monster of the apocalypse, that flits past noisily high above me. He flies on toward France, seeking doubtless the more sheltered region where women and children begin to be found, with the hope of slaughtering some of them. VI--"I LOOK DOWN ON THE TERRIBLE LANDSCAPE" I walk on, if one call it walking, this wearisome and inexorable process of plunging through the mud. And finally I arrive at the little grove of trees where we are to meet. I am glad of it, for my helmet and cloak had become a heavy burden under this unexpectedly burning sun. It happens that I am the first to arrive; the officer whom I have summoned--to discuss new defense works, new lines of stake nets, new burrows--is without doubt that blue outline making its way hither, but he is still distant, and I have still a few moments to continue my meditation of the way hither before it is time to become once more concentrated and exact. It is clear that the place is not left entirely alone, for these poor, half-stripped branches offer no more resistance than mere sheets of paper to the huge humming beetles that pass through them from time to time; but all the same a little wood like this keeps you company, shuts you in, spreads something of illusion about you. I am on a bit of rising ground, from which I look down on all the terrible landscape, the succession of monotonous hillocks zebra-streaked by whitish "guts," and the few trees disheveled by shrapnel bullets. In the further distances these intertwined wires, stretched in all directions, sparkle in the sun, somewhat like "the Virgin's threads," which spread over the meadows in Spring. And on all sides the detonations of artillery keep up their accustomed rumble, which goes on unceasingly here, night and day, like the roar of the ocean against the cliffs. Ah! the huge bird has found some one to speak to in the air! I see it all at once assailed by a host of those little tufts of white cotton--bursting shrapnel--which look so innocent, but which are so perilous for birds of its breed. It turns about hastily; its crimes are put off for another time.