ripple of the first great German floodtide. A drive of some twenty
miles took us to St. Menehould, and another ten brought us to the front
in the sector of Divisional-General H. A fine soldier this, and heaven
help Germany if he and his division get within its borders, for he is,
as one can see at a glance, a man of iron who has been goaded to
fierceness by all that his beloved country has endured. He is a man of
middle size, swarthy, hawk-like, very abrupt in his movements, with two
steel grey eyes, which are the most searching that mine have ever met.
His hospitality and courtesy to us were beyond all bounds, but there is
another side to him, and it is one which it is wiser not to provoke. In
person he took us to his lines, passing through the usual shot-torn
villages behind them. Where the road dips down into the great forest
there is one particular spot which is visible to the German artillery
observers. The General mentioned it at the time, but his remark seemed
to have no personal interest. We understood it better on our return in
the evening.

Now we found ourselves in the depths of the woods, primeval woods of
oak and beech in the deep clay soil that the great oak loves. There had
been rain and the forest paths were ankle deep in mire. Everywhere, to
right and left, soldiers' faces, hard and rough from a year of open
air, gazed up at us from their burrows in the ground. Presently an
alert, blue-clad figure stood in the path to greet us. It was the
Colonel of the sector. He was ridiculously like Cyrano de Bergerac as
depicted by the late M. Coquelin, save that his nose was of more
moderate proportion. The ruddy colouring, the bristling feline
full-ended moustache, the solidity of pose, the backward tilt of the head,
the general suggestion of the bantam cock, were all there facing us as
he stood amid the leaves in the sunlight. Gauntlets and a long
rapier--nothing else was wanting. Something had amused Cyrano. His