childhood and of our youth. "Am I a Frenchman?" "Would I
deserve to be one?" No, little boy, you shall not say that.
You shall have a native land and your step may sound on the
earth, nourishing you with the assurance, "My father was
there and he gave all he had for France." If recompense is
necessary, this is the sweetest one there is for me.

This is the letter of a Protestant, second lieutenant Maurice
Dieterlin, who was killed on the sixth of October, 1915, and who, on
the eve of the Champagne offensive, wrote these last words they were
to read from him, to his family:

I saw the most beautiful day of all my life. I regret
nothing and I am as happy as a king. I am glad to pay my
debt that my country may be free. Tell my friends that I go
on to victory with a smile on my lips, happier than the
stoics and the martyrs of all time. For a moment we are
beyond the France that is eternal. France ought to live.
France will live. Get ready your loveliest gowns, keep your
best smiles to welcome the conquerors in the great war.
Perhaps we shall not be there, but there will be others in
our places. Do not weep, do not wear mourning, for we shall
have died with a sweet smile on our lips and a lovely
superhumanity in our hearts. Vive la France! Vive la France!

What wonderful enthusiasm! But still more beautiful is this prayer,
that of a little Protestant soldier from the Montbéliard country, who
died in the Gare d'Amberieu hospital:

"Lord, may Thy will and not mine be done. I have consecrated