We rolled slowly across the beautiful undulating country of grain and beet fields.  We had not gone far when, right at the edge of the road, we came upon an isolated mound, with a rude cross at its head, and a tiny tricolore at its foot—­the first French grave on the plain.

We motioned the chauffeur to stop, and we went on, on foot.

First the graves were scattered, for the boys lie buried just where they fell—­cradled in the bosom of the mother country that nourished them, and for whose safety they laid down their lives.  As we advanced they became more numerous, until we reached a point where, as far as we could see, in every direction, floated the little tricolore flags, like fine flowers in the landscape.  They made tiny spots against the far-off horizon line, and groups like beds of flowers in the foreground, and we knew that, behind the skyline, there were more.

Here and there was a haystack with one grave beside it, and again there would be one, usually partly burned, almost encircled with the tiny flags which said:  “Here sleep the heroes.”

It was a disturbing and a thrilling sight.  I give you my word, as I stood there, I envied them.  It seemed to me a fine thing to lie out there in the open, in the soil of the fields their simple death has made holy, the duty well done, the dread over, each one just where he fell defending his mother-land, enshrined forever in the loving memory of the land he had saved, in graves to be watered for years, not only by the tears of those near and dear to them, but by those of the heirs to their glory—­the children of the coming generation of free France.

You may know a finer way to go.  I do not.  Surely, since Death is, it is better than dying of old age between clean sheets.  Near the end of the route we came to the little walled cemetery of Chambry, the scene of one of the most desperate struggles of the 6th and 7th of September.  You know what the humble village burying-grounds are like.  Its wall is about six feet high, of plaster and stone, with an entrance on the road to the village.  To the west and northwest the walls are on the top of a bank, high above the crossroads.  I do not know the position of the pursuing French army.  The chauffeur who drove us could not enlighten us.  As near as I could guess, from the condition of the walls, I imagine that the French artillery must have been in the direction of Penchard, on the wooded hills.

The walls are pierced with gun holes, about three feet apart, and those on the west and southwest are breeched by cannon and shell-fire.  Here, after the position had been several times stormed by artillery, the Zouaves made one of the most brilliant bayonet charges of the day, dashing up the steep banks and through the breeched walls.  Opposite the gate is another steep bank where can still be seen the improvised gun positions of the French when they pushed the retreat across the plain.