and martyrs。 Why have we done away with it？ If this game of killing and being killed is the fine school for virtue it is made out to be； then all our efforts towards law and order have been a mistake。 We never ought to have emerged from the jungle。〃
He took a note…book from under his pillow and commenced to scribble。
An old…looking man spoke。 He lay with his arms folded across his breast； addressing apparently the smoky rafters。 He was a Russian； a teacher of languages in Paris at the outbreak of the war； and had joined the French Army。
〃It is not only courage；〃 he said； 〃that War brings out。 It brings out vile things too。 Oh； I'm not thinking merely of the Boches。 That's the cant of every nation： that all the heroism is on one side and all the brutality on the other。 Take men from anywhere and some of them will be devils。 War gives them their opportunity； brings out the beast。 Can you wonder at it？ You teach a man to plunge a bayonet into the writhing flesh of a fellow human being； and twist it round and round and jamb it further in； while the blood is spurting from him like a fountain。 What are you making of him but a beast？ A man's got to be a beast before he can bring himself to do it。 I have seen things done by our own men in cold blood； the horror of which will haunt my memory until I die。 But of course； we hush it up when it happens to be our own people。〃
He ceased speaking。 No one seemed inclined to break the silence。
They remained confused in her memory； these talks among the wounded men in the low； dimly lighted hut that had become her world。 At times it was but two men speaking to one another in whispers； at others every creaking bed would be drawn into the argument。
One topic that never lost its interest was： Who made wars？ Who hounded the people into them； and kept them there； tearing at one another's throats？ They never settled it。
〃God knows I didn't want it； speaking personally；〃 said a German prisoner one day； with a laugh。 〃I had been working at a printing business sixteen hours a day for seven years。 It was just beginning to pay me； and now my wife writes me that she has had to shut the place up and sell the machinery to keep them all from starving。〃
〃But couldn't you have done anything to stop it？〃 demanded a Frenchman； lying next to him。 〃All your millions of Socialists； what were they up to？ What went wrong with the Internationale； the Universal Brotherhood of Labour； and all that Tra…la…la？〃
The German laughed again。 〃Oh； they know their business；〃 he answered。 〃You have your glass of beer and go to bed； and when you wake up in the morning you find that war has been declared； and you keep your mouth shutunless you want to be shot for a traitor。 Not that it would have made much difference；〃 he added。 〃I admit that。 The ground had been too well prepared。 England was envious of our trade。 King Edward had been plotting our destruction。 Our papers were full of translations from yours； talking about 'La Revanche！' We were told that you had been lending money to Russia to enable her to build railways； and that when they were complete France and Russia would fall upon us suddenly。 'The Fatherland in danger！' It may be lies or it may not； what is one to do？ What would you have doneeven if you could have done anything？〃
〃He's right；〃 said a dreamy…eyed looking man； laying down the book he had been reading。 〃We should have done just the same。 'My country； right or wrong。' After all； it is an ideal。〃
A dark； black…bearded man raised himself painfully upon his elbow。 He was a tailor in the Rue Parnesse； and prided himself on a decided resemblance to Victor Hugo。
〃It's a noble ideal；〃 he said。 〃La Patrie！ The great Mother。 Right or wrong； who shall dare to harm her？ Yes； if it was she who rose up in her majesty and called to us。〃 He laughed。 〃What does it mean in reality： Germania； Italia； La France； Britannia？ Half a score of pompous old muddlers with their fat wives egging them on： sons of the fools before them； talkers who have wormed themselves into power by making frothy speeches and fine promises。 My Country！〃 he laughed again。 〃Look at them。 Can't you see their swelling paunches and their flabby faces？ Half a score of ambitious politicians； gouty old financiers； bald…headed old toffs； with their waxed moustaches and false teeth。 That's what we mean when we talk about 'My Country'： a pack of selfish； soulless； muddle…headed old men。 And whether they're right or whether they're wrong； our duty is to fight at their biddingto bleed for them； to die for them； that they may grow more sleek and prosperous。〃 He sank back on his pillow with another laugh。
Sometimes they agreed it was the newspapers that made warthat fanned every trivial difference into a vital question of national honourthat； whenever there was any fear of peace； re…stoked the fires of hatred with their never…failing stories of atrocities。 At other times they decided it was the capitalists； the traders； scenting profit for themselves。 Some held it was the politicians； dreaming of going down to history as Richelieus or as Bismarcks。 A popular theory was that cause for war was always discovered by the ruling classes whenever there seemed danger that the workers were getting out of hand。 In war； you put the common people back in their place； revived in them the habits of submission and obedience。 Napoleon the Little； it was argued； had started the war of 1870 with that idea。 Russia had welcomed the present war as an answer to the Revolution that was threatening Czardom。 Others contended it was the great munition industries； aided by the military party； the officers impatient for opportunities of advancement； the strategists eager to put their theories to the test。 A few of the more philosophical shrugged their shoulders。 It was the thing itself that sooner or later was bound to go off of its own accord。 Half every country's energy； half every country's time and money was spent in piling up explosives。 In every country envy and hatred of every other country was preached as a religion。 They called it patriotism。 Sooner or later the spark fell。
A wizened little man had been listening to it all one day。 He had a curiously rat…like face； with round； red； twinkling eyes； and a long； pointed nose that twitched as he talked。
〃I'll tell you who makes all the wars；〃 he said。 〃It's you and me； my dears： we make the wars。 We love them。 That's why we open our mouths and swallow all the twaddle that the papers give us； and cheer the fine； black…coated gentlemen when they tell us it's our sacred duty to kill Germans； or Italians； or Russians； or anybody else。 We are just crazy to kill something： it doesn't matter what。 If it's to be Germans； we shout 'A Berlin！'； and if it's to be Russians we cheer for Liberty。 I was in Paris at the time of the Fashoda trouble。 How we hissed the English in the cafes！ And how they glared back at us！ They were just as eager to kill us。 Who makes a dog fight？ Why； the dog。 Anybody can do it。 Who could make us fight each other； if we didn't want to？ Not all the king's horses and all the King's men。 No； my dears； it's we make the wars。 You and me； my dears。〃
There came a day in early spring。 All night long the guns had never ceased。 It sounded like the tireless barking of ten thousand giant dogs。 Behind the hills； the whole horizon； like a fiery circle； was ringed with flashing light。 Shapeless forms； bent beneath burdens； passed in endless procession through the village。 Masses of rushing men swept like shadowy phantoms through the fitfully…illumined darkness。 Beneath that everlasting barking； Joan would hear； now the piercing wail of a child； now a clap of thunder that for the moment would drown all other sounds； followed by a faint； low； rumbling crash； like the shooting of coals into a cellar。 The wounded on their beds lay with wide…open； terrified eyes； moving feverishly from side to side。
At dawn the order came that the hospital was to be evacuated。 The ambulances were already waiting in the street。 Joan flew up the ladder to her loft； the other side of the yard。 Madame Lelanne was already there。 She had thrown a few things into a bundle； and her foot was again upon the ladder； when it seemed to her that someone struck her； hurling her back upon the floor； and the house the other side of the yard rose up into the air； and then fell quite slowly； and a cloud of dust hid it from her sight。
Madame Lelanne must have carried her down the ladder。 She was standing in the yard； and the dust was choking her。 Across the street； beyond the ruins of the hospital； swarms of men were running about like ants when their nest has been disturbed。 Some were running this way； and some that。 And then they would turn and run back again； making dancing movements round one another and jostling one another。 The guns had ceased； and instead； it sounded as if all the babies in the world were playing with their rattles。 Suddenly Madame Lelanne reappeared out of the dust； and seizing Joan； dragged her through a dark opening and down a flight of steps； and then left her。 She was in a great vaulted cellar。 A faint light crept in through a grated window at the other end。 There was a long table against the wall； and in front of it a bench。 She staggered to it and sat down； leaning against the damp wall。 The place was very silent。 Suddenly she began to laugh。 She tried to stop herself； but couldn't。 And then she heard footsteps descending； and her memory came back to her with a rush。 They were German footsteps； she felt sure by the sound： they were so slow and heavy。 They should not find her in hysterics； anyhow。 She fixed her teeth into the wooden table in front of her and held on to it with clenched hands。 She had recovered herself before the footsteps had finished their descent。 With a relief that made it difficult for her not to begin laughing again； she found it was Madame Lelanne and Monsieur Dubos。 They were carrying something between them。 She hardly recognized Dubos at first。 His beard was gone； and a line of flaming scars had taken its place。 They laid their burden on the table。 It was one of the wounded men fr