sion which had claimed most of their affections,
and yet--! What did an alarm-clock, an empty bird-cage, a pair of
patched boots, a string of sauce-pans, a bundle of ragged umbrellas
signify in any life? What utter poverty, if these were the best that
they could save!

There was a band on the platform, consisting mainly of bugles and
drums, to welcome them. The leader is reputed to be the laziest man
in the French Army. It is said that they tried him at everything and
then, in despair, sent him to Evian to drum forgotten happiness into
the bones of repatries. Whatever his former military record, he now
does his utmost to impersonate the defiant and impassioned soul of
France. His moustaches are curled fiercely. His brows are heavy as
thunderclouds. When he drums, the veins swell out in his neck with the
violence of his energy.

Suddenly, with an ominous preliminary rumble, the band struck up
the Marseillaise. You should have seen the change in this crowd
of corpses. You must remember that these people had been so long
accustomed to lies and snares that it would probably take days to
persuade them that they were actually safe home in France.

As the battle-song for which they had suffered shook the air their
lips rustled like leaves. There was hardly any sound--only a hoarse
whisper. Then, all of a sudden, words came--an inarticulate, sobbing
commotion. Tears blinded the eyes of every spectator, even those who
had witnessed similar scenes often; we were crying because the singing
was so little human.

"Vive la France! Vive la France!" They waved flags--not the
tri-colour, but flags which had been given them in Switzerland. They
clung together dazed, women with slatternly dresses, children with
peaked faces, men unhappy and unshaven. A woman caught sight of my
uniform. "Vive l'Angleterre," she cried, and they all came stumbling
forward to embrace me. It was horrible. They creaked like automatons.
They gestured and mouthed, but the soul had been crushed out of their
eyes. You don't need any proofs of Hun atrocities; the proofs are to
be seen at Evian. There are no severed hands, no crucified bodies;
only hearts that have been mutilated. Sorrow is at its saddest when
it cannot even contrive to appear dignified. There is no dignity
about the repatries at Evian, with their absurd umbrellas, sauce-pans,
patched-boots, alarm-clocks and bird-cages. They do not appeal to one
as sacrificed patriots. There is no nobility in th