Finally Renson turned round and, slowly and methodically, began to wend his way back. After a few yards more he would be in safety. We saw him on the crest of the bank. He glided into the water, crossed the stream, entered the narrow passage, and was soon back in the trenches, contented and happy, bringing with him valuable information. And this man, who had thus braved death, laughed heartily, as he gave us flowers from the German trenches. He then went to his shelter and prepared his report, tracing in full detail the daring itinerary he had chosen. The Commander questioned him on some point and, in order to explain better and to show the exact spot, they both approached a loophole in a communication trench. The Sergeant pointed with his finger to the spot in the meadow where the enemy was observing. A few seconds later and he was moving away.... Malediction! There was a cruel whizzing sound and Renson was dead. His skull had been pierced and he fell to the ground, the earthen wall bespattered with his generous blood. At Alveringhem, in a peaceful country cemetery, in a grave covered with flowers and surmounted by a large cross, lies Adjutant Renson, Knight of the Order of Leopold II. who died for his country. CHAPTER XXXI Observers By Artillery Captain M--- C--- Leaning on my beam, I looked out into the night. It was a beautiful winter night, dreamy and peaceful. A vague gleam of moonlight hovered over the serene space, touching the fleecy clouds which were floating in the sky. And yet everything was sad with an infinite sadness. From the summit on which I was perched, I looked out on every side on an immense horizon, and on every side it was a desert of death and desolation. In front of me were the Germans. Five hundred yards separated us from their outposts and that was the only side where there was no water. To the right, to the left, and behind us was the inundation, a great humid street, which, as far as the eye could see, shone strangely under the wan moonbeams, a weird shroud, covering, in its icy folds, thousands of corpses buried in the mud. Here and there, a dark spot could be seen in the water. It was all that remained of a farm, a charred, crumbling skeleton, or there was a dead beast breaking through the winding-sheet, or a human corpse turning its grimacing face to the moon. There were two, not far away from me, that I knew well. For some months, they had been my daily companions. The first one was a German with a ravaged face, showing all its teeth in a horrible grin. The other one was a Belgian. Only the face emerged and the water splashed round it, leaving green shreds on its grey cheeks. A dark bird was poised on its nose, pecking at its gnawed eye sockets. Oh, shades of heroes! Can the glory that surrounds you with its halo not cover the remains of your poor profaned bodies?