in the throat"; or "the Chasseurs Alpins climbed the ridge to the
song of La Marseillaise."

The spirit of it runs through the narrative of a French infantryman who
described an action in the Argonne, where his regiment held a village
heavily attacked by the enemy. There was street-fighting of the
fiercest kind, and hand-to-hand combats in the houses and even in
the cellars. "Blood," he wrote, "ran in the gutters like water on a rainy
day." The French soldiers were being hard pressed and reserves
came with their new regiments in the nick of time.

"Suddenly the Marseillaise rang out while the bugles of the three
regiments sounded the charge. From where we stood by the fire of
burning houses we could see the action very clearly, and never again
shall I see anything more fantastic than those thousands of red legs
charging in close ranks. The grey legs began to tremble (they do not
love the bayonet), and the Marseillaise continued with the bugles,
while bur guns vomited without a pause. Our infantry had closed with
the enemy. Not a shot now, but cold steel... Suddenly the charge
ceased its bugle-notes. They sounded instead the call to the flag. Au
drapeau! Our flag was captured! Instinctively we ceased fire,
thunderstruck. Then very loud and strong the Marseillaise rang out
above the music of the bugles, calling Au drapeau again and again."

"We saw the awful melee, the struggle to the death with that song
above all the shouting and the shrieks... You who imagine you know
La Marseillaise because you have heard it played at prize
distributions must acknowledge your error. In order to know it you
must have heard it as I have tried to tell you, when blood is flowing
and the flag of France is in danger."

To this soldier it is an intolerable thought that he should hear the
hymn of victory sung at a "prize distribution," or in a music-hall
scented with the perfume of women. But even in a music-hall in Paris,
or in a third-rate cabaret in a provincial town, the song may be heard
with all its magic. I heard it one night in such a place, where the song
was greater than the singer. French poilus were in the hall, crippled or
convalescent, after their day of battle, and with their women around
them they stood at attention while the national hymn was sung. They
knew the meaning of it, and the women knew. Some of them became
quite pale, with others faces flushed. Their eyes were grave, but with
a queer fire in them as the verses