locked, as the young parish priest had been called up by the
mobilisation. I made haste to tell our Captain and my comrades the
good news, and we all determined to be present at the Benediction that
evening.

At half-past five our ears were delighted by music such as we had not
been accustomed to hear for a very long time. In the deepening
twilight some invisible hand was chiming the bells of the little
church. How deliciously restful they were after the loud roar of the
cannon and the rattle of the machine-guns! Who would have thought that
such deep, and also such solemn, notes could come from so small a
steeple? It stirred the heart and brought tears to the eyes, like
some of Chopin's music. Those bells seemed to speak to us, they seemed
to call us to prayer and preach courage and virtue to us.

At the end of the shady walk I was passing down--whose trees formed a
rustling wall on either side--appeared the little church, with its
slender steeple. It stood out in clear relief, a dark blue, almost
violet silhouette against the purple background made by the setting
sun. Some dark human forms were moving about and collecting around the
low arched doorway. Perhaps these were the good old women of the
district who had come to pray in this little church which had remained
closed to them for nearly two months. I fancied I could distinguish
them from where I was, dignified and erect in their old-fashioned
mantles.

But as soon as I got closer to them I found I was mistaken. It was not
aged and pious women who were hurrying to the church door, but a group
of silent artillerymen wrapped in their large blue caped cloaks. The
bells shook out their solemn notes, and seemed to be calling others to