Along the old Roman road that crosses the rolling hills from the upper
waters of the Marne to the Meuse, a soldier of France was passing in
the night.

In the broader pools of summer moonlight he showed as a hale and husky
fellow of about thirty years, with dark hair and eyes and a handsome,
downcast face. His uniform was faded and dusty; not a trace of the
horizon-blue was left; only a gray shadow. He had no knapsack on his
back, no gun on his shoulder. Wearily and doggedly he plodded his way,
without eyes for the veiled beauty of the sleeping country. The quick,
firm military step was gone. He trudged like a tramp, choosing always
the darker side of the road.

He was a figure of flight, a broken soldier.

Presently the road led him into a thick forest of oaks and beeches, and
so to the crest of a hill overlooking a long open valley with wooded
heights beyond. Below him was the pointed spire of some temple or
shrine, lying at the edge of the wood, with no houses near it. Farther
down he could see a cluster of white houses with the tower of a church
in the center. Other villages were dimly visible up and down the valley
on either slope. The cattle were lowing from the barnyards. The cocks
crowed for the dawn. Already the moon had sunk behind the western
trees. But the valley was still bathed in its misty, vanishing light.
Over the eastern ridge the gray glimmer of the little day was rising,
faintly tinged with rose. It was time for the broken soldier to seek
his covert and rest till night returned.

So he stepped aside from the road and found a little dell thick with