Having filled our jars, Pryor and I made a tour of inspection of the
place.
In a green field to the rear we discovered a graveyard, fenced in
except at our end, where a newly open grave yawned up at us as if
aweary of waiting for its prey.
"Room for extension here," said Pryor. "I suppose they'll not (p. 106)
close in this until the graves reach the edge of the roadway. Let's
read the epitaphs."
How peaceful the place was. On the right I could see through a space
between the walls of the cottage the wide winding street of the
village, the houses, cornstacks, and the waving bushes, and my soul
felt strangely quieted. In its peace, in its cessation from labour,
there was neither anxiety nor sadness, there remained rest, placid and
sad. It seemed as if the houses, all intact at this particular spot,
held something sacred and restful, that with them and in them all was
good. They knew no evil or sorrow. There was peace, the desired
consummation of all things--peace brought about by war, the peace of
the desert, and death.
I looked at the first grave, its cross, and the rude lettering. This
was the epitaph; this and nothing more:--
"An Unknown British Soldier."
On a grave adjoining was a cheap gilt vase with flowers, English flowers,
faded and dying. I looked at the cross. One of the Coldstream Guards lay
there killed in action six weeks before. I turned up the black-edged
envelope on the vase, and read the badly spelt message, "From his (p.
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