Often Palmer and I⁠—dear, grave old Palmer, with sphinx-like face and honest soul⁠—used to trudge along silently, with just a sigh now and then, or a groan, or a sudden cry of “O God!⁠ ⁠… O Christ!” It was I, generally, who spoke those words, and Palmer would say: “Yes⁠ ⁠… and it’s going to last a long time yet. A long time⁠ ⁠… It’s a question who will hold out twenty-four hours longer than the other side. France is tired, more tired than any of us. Will she break first? Somehow I think not. They are wonderful! Their women have a gallant spirit⁠ ⁠… How good it is, the smell of the trees tonight!”

Sometimes we would cross the river and look back at the cathedral, high and beautiful above the huddle of old, old houses on the quayside, with a faint light on its pinnacle and buttresses and immense blackness beyond them.

“Those builders of France loved their work,” said Palmer. “There was always war about the walls of this cathedral, but they went on with it, stone by stone, without hurry.”