The Mayor is escorted on either side by the French and Belgian "Commandants de Place," one in Belgian khaki and the other in horizon-blue, (the latter limping badly, a hero from Verdun where he won the Croix de Guerre and the Medalle Militaire), the doctors in uniform and the Red Cross nurses whose white dresses, blue caps and veils add a note of color, and present a cheering appearance in contrast to the convalescing Belgians who follow, very sombre, in their black uniforms and black caps. [Illustration: Procession on the Way to the Cemetary] [Illustration: French Cemetaries Decorated on the "jeur des Morts"] Two hundred-odd Frenchmen, striding after them, are very different in appearance and behavior. The Belgians are gloomy and taciturn, moving along in silent ranks; the Frenchmen, on the contrary, are full of life and nerve (their wounds notwithstanding), attired in delicious shades of blues and reds and creamy-white—the light blue of the Hussars, the darker shades of the Chasseurs Alpins, the brilliant Zouaves, the red trousers of the Fantassians; even the black-faced scarlet-clad Senegalais give a lively note, for these men are convalescing, and old clothes are good enough, their new horizon-blue uniforms being kept for their return to the front. A very pleasant crowd they form, with an eye towards the pretty Bretonne in her peasant coiffe and costume, with a laugh for a comrade, and a merry word for the bystander. Behind these plucky fellows (perhaps on the battlefield tomorrow) come the townspeople and peasants from the neighboring country. The procession moves on to the cemetery, where prayers and speeches, patriotic and religious, are made, wreaths placed on the little wooden crosses. White-coiffed heads are bowed in silent communion, and over all tolls the solemn notes of the church bell. All over France today there has been a great coming and going. Flowers are placed lovingly and regretfully on the mounds. But to how many, even this last service is denied, for the northern battlefields hide many unknown graves. Only in spirit can these afflicted ones visit the last resting-place of father, husband, son, or fiancé. But who shall say that the great army of heroic souls, so lately passed over, are not present, consoling and comforting by their spiritual presence, their grieving people? The French have often been considered a frivolous race, but no one who has seen the solemn way in which they fulfil this pious duty can ever believe it again. "One could kneel before our soldiers," said one of our great chiefs in one of the most tragic moments in the long agonizing siege before Verdun. In face of the most violent attacks, under the infernal bombardment, such acts of heroism and self-sacrifice and devotion took place, that one realized how deep is their sense of duty, and how great their determination, expressed in their own battle-cry, "They shall not get through." (Ils ne passerons pas!)