look back from them to the little scene we saw at Barcy under the
snow--a halt of some French infantry, in front of the ruined church. The
"_salut an drapeau_" was going on, that simple, daily rite which, like a
secular mass, is the outward and visible sign to the French soldier of
his country and what he owes her. This passion of French
patriotism--what a marvellous force, what a regenerating force it has
shown itself in this war! It springs, too, from the heart of a race
which has the Latin gift of expression. Listen to this last entry in the
journal of Captain Robert Dubarle, the evening before his death
in action:

"This attack to-morrow, besides the inevitable emotion it rouses in
one's thoughts, stirs in me a kind of joyous impatience, and the pride
of doing my duty--which is to fight gladly, and die victorious. To the
last breath of our lives, to the last child of our mothers, to the last
stone of our dwellings, all is thine, my country! Make no hurry. Choose
thine own time for striking. If thou needest months, we will fight for
months; if thou needest years, we will fight for years--the children of
to-day shall be the soldiers of to-morrow.

"Already, perhaps, my last hour is hastening towards me. Accept the gift
I make thee of my strength, my hopes, my joys and my sorrows, of all my
being, filled with the passion of thee. Pardon thy children their errors
of past days. Cover them with thy glory--put them to sleep in thy flag.
Rise, victorious and renewed, upon their graves. Let our holocaust save
thee--_Patrie, Patrie_!"

An utterance which for tragic sincerity and passion may well compare
with the letter of an English officer I printed at the end of
_England's Effort_.