do everything well, and conquer on the field of battle; and after victory
won, turn our steps homeward as the heralds who announce peace. So shall
we praise Thee with gladsomeness, O most gracious Father, for Thy dear
Son's sake, Jesus Christ!

[Footnote 1: Every now and then one comes across a German word
untranslatable in its compact volume of expressiveness. How weakly am I
forced to render _Freundschaft_ here! "Outmarching," though a literal, is
a poor equivalent for _Ausmarsch_. In the old Scottish language we find an
exact correspondent for _aus_; the "Furthmarch" gives the idea to a
hair's-breadth.]

It is the morning of Gravelotte. King Wilhelm has issued his laconic order
for the day, and all know how bloody and arduous is the task before his
host. The French tents are visible away in the distance yonder by the
auberge of St. Hubert, and already the explosion of an occasional shell
gives earnest of the wrath to come. The regiment in which Hans is a
private has marched to Caulre Farm, and is halted for breakfast there
before beginning the real battle by attacking the French outpost
stronghold in Verneville. The tough ration beef sticks in poor Hans'
throat. He is no coward, but he thinks of Gretchen and the children, and
the Reserve-man draws aside into the thicket to commune with his own
thoughts. He has already found comfort in the little gray volume, and so
he pulls it out again to search for consolation in this hour of gloom. He
finds what he wants in the prayer


FOR THE BATTLE

Lord of Sabaoth, with Thee is no distinction in helping in great things or