“ C’est à cause du chat! ” said the old woman. “Ze cat, Monsieur, ’e ’ave ’ad your friend in ze passage tree time already today. Trois fois! ”

Poor little men born of diseased civilization! They were volunteers to a man, and some of them with as much courage as soldiers twice their size.

They were the Bantams who told me of the Anglican padre at Longueval. It was Father Hall of Mirfield, attached to the South African Brigade. He came out to a dressing station established in the one bit of ruin which could be used for shelter, and devoted himself to the wounded with a spiritual fervor. They were suffering horribly from thirst, which made their tongues swell and set their throats on fire.

“Water!” they cried. “Water! For Christ’s sake, water!”