Surely if our Russian Allies could achieve in one day what reformers had scarce hoped to see effected in a hundred years, and by one fell swoop convert herself into an abstemious country, animated with but one desire—to conquer—we should be able to attain a little more unity, a little less slackness?
October 29th. The news of the King's accident whilst reviewing the troops is the one thing one hears discussed on all sides. Exactly where he will be taken seems as yet indefinite, but the orderlies from the Officers' Hospital opposite are fully convinced that their wards are being prepared for his reception. The French seem almost as upset as we are, for their love of our Royalty remains as staunch as during the life of King Edward, whom they worshipped, and the Prince of Wales—of whom we have caught an occasional glimpse on his way to and from the Front—vies in popularity with his genial grandfather.
[CHAPTER XIV]
November, 1915
November 2nd, All Souls' Day! The Bishop of Arras held a service in the cemetery, a memorial service for those morts pour la Patrie.
The rain streamed down from the steel-grey sky in Boulognese torrents as the mass surged hither and thither amongst the crowded graves.
Those graves into which but a year ago we watched the dead being heaped three deep, into which we cast our meagre offering of violets with a wish that those relatives at home might know that at least two English souls were there to pray for them lovingly at the end, are now old graves and planted with neat little boxwood crosses.
Oh! city of little white crosses on that high hill, what a history of pain and valour you stand for!
The bishop came late. Some feared the weather might deter him; others scoffed at the idea.