L'ENVOI 229 



moonlit road, leaving the station's ugliness 

 and the sleeping houses in the village 

 street to stand bare-headed at the entrance 

 of that long avenue. To-night no light 

 shines in ihe chateau, and yet I see an 

 old man sitting lonely in a darkened room, 

 the last of all his Hne ; a great name 

 passes with him, I have his letter by me 

 as I write, " I am," so run the trembling 

 characters, *' I am to-day the saddest and 

 the proudest man in France." So speaks 

 the vraie ?iobIesse. And Jean Pierre, what 

 of him ? He fell in front of Verdun, rushed 

 up with other veterans to stem a night 

 attack. He fell in front of Verdun, a Ger- 

 man bullet through his head. God ! like 

 Jean Pierre, I hate these Governments. 



To-night the world is suffering, paying 

 a bitter price in pain and fear and strife. 

 "What shall it profit them?" I hear 

 again mad Abalen's voice. To-night 

 he counts his dead in a land desolate. 

 For Ian Abalen, the Innocent, is wise. 

 He knows that spirits of the dead return 

 again to Brittany, along the landes, among 

 the woods and by the waters which they 

 loved so well. 



