These organisms, struggling so tenaciously to regain their hold on life, bringing their reviving energies out into the sunlight, represented but the most minute part of the number mowed down by the scythe of Death.

Back of them were thousands and thousands of comrades groaning on hospital beds from which they would probably never rise.

Thousands and thousands were hidden forever in the bosom of the Earth moistened by their death agony--fatal land which, upon receiving a hail of projectiles, brought forth a harvest of bristling crosses! War now showed itself to Desnoyers with all its cruel hideousness.

He had been accustomed to speak of it heretofore as those in robust health speak of death, knowing that it exists and is horrible, but seeing it afar off.

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