ory--put them to sleep in thy flag.
Rise, victorious and renewed, upon their graves. Let our holocaust save
thee--_Patrie, Patrie_!"

An utterance which for tragic sincerity and passion may well compare
with the letter of an English officer I printed at the end of
_England's Effort_.

On they go, into the snow and the mist, the small sturdy soldiers, bound
northwards for those great and victorious attacks on the Craonne
plateau, and the Chemin des Dames, which were to follow so close on our
own British victory on the Vimy Ridge. They pass the two ladies in the
motor car, looking at us with friendly, laughing eyes, and disappear
into the storm.

Then we move on to the northern edge of the battle-field, and at Rosoy
we turn south towards Meaux, passing Vareddes to our left. The weather
clears a little, and from the high ground we are able to see Meaux to
the west, lying beside its great river, than which our children's
children will greet no more famous name. The Marne winds, steely grey,
through the white landscape, and we run down to it quickly. Soon we are
making our way on foot through the dripping streets of Meaux to the old
bridge, which the British broke down--one of three--on their retreat--so
soon to end! Then, a few minutes in the lovely cathedral--its beauty was
a great surprise to me!--a greeting to the tomb of Bossuet--ah! what a
_Discours_ he would have written on the Battle of the Marne!--and a
rapid journey of some twenty-five miles back to Paris.

But there is still a story left to tell--the story of Vareddes.

"Vareddes"--says a local historian of the battle--"is now a very quiet
place. There is no movement in the streets and little life in the
houses, where some of the injuries of war have been repaired." But there
is no spot in the wide battle-field where there burns a more passionate
hatred of a barbarous enemy. "Push open this window, enter this house,
talk with any person whatever whom you may happen to meet, and they will
tell you of the torture of old men, carried off as hostages and murdered
in cold blood, or of the agonies of fear deliberately inflicted on old
and frail women, through a whole night."

The story of Vareddes is indeed nearly incredible. That English, or
French, or Italian troops could have been guilty of this particular
crime is beyond imagination. Individual deeds of passion and lust are
possible, indeed, in all armies, though the degree to which they have
prevailed in the