heighten the impression of emptiness, to give birth to the odd fancy that
some alchemic quality in the honeyed sunlight now steeping it must have
preserved the place through the ages. But in the white close surrounding
the church were signs that life still persisted. A peasant was drawing
water at the pump, and the handle made a noise; a priest chatted with
three French ladies who had come over from a neighbouring seaside resort.
And then a woman in deep mourning emerged from a tiny shop and took her
bicycle from against the wall and spoke to me.

"Vous etes Americain, monsieur?"

I acknowledged it.

"Vous venez nous sauver"--the same question I had heard on the lips of
the workman in the night. "I hope so, madame," I replied, and would have
added, "We come also to save ourselves." She looked at me with sad,
questioning eyes, and I knew that for her--and alas for many like her--we
were too late. When she had mounted her wheel and ridden away I bought a
'Matin' and sat down on a doorstep to read about Kerensky and the Russian
Revolution. The thing seemed incredible here--war seemed incredible, and
yet its tentacles had reached out to this peaceful Old World spot and
taken a heavy toll. Once more I sought the ramparts, only to be reminded
by those crumbling, machicolated ruins that I was in a war-ridden land.
Few generations had escaped the pestilence.

At no great distance lay the little city which had been handed over to us
by the French Government for a naval base, one of the ports where our
troops and supplies are landed. Those who know provincial France will
visualize its narrow streets and reticent shops, its grey-white and ecru
houses all more or less of the same design, with long French windows