Bob had not come to his decision carelessly, or with a light heart. He had gone over the ground inch by inch. Yes, England was in the right. He did not believe that Germany had planned the war, and he blamed the Czar as much as he blamed the Kaiser. No doubt Germany had broken treaties. It was wrong for her to invade Luxemburg, and then to send her ultimatum to Belgium, after she had been a party to the treaty to maintain Belgium's integrity and neutrality. Of course, the King of the Belgians had made a strong case when he had called upon England to protect her.

But war!

He thought of what it meant, for his father's teaching and influence were not forgotten. Generations of Quaker influence and blood were not without effect. War was born in hell. It was an act of savagery, and not of Christian nations. He pictured the awful carnage, the indescribable butchery, the untold horror which were entailed. He saw hordes of men fighting like devils; realised the lust for blood which was ever the concomitant of war. Besides, they settled nothing. Wars always bred wars, one always sowed the seeds of another. When this bloody welter came to an end, what then? After the nation's wealth had been wasted, after tens of thousands of the most promising lives had been sacrificed, after innumerable homes had been laid waste, after all the agony, what then? Would we be any nearer justice? Would wrong be righted, and love take the place of hatred?

But this was not all, neither did it touch the depths of the question. War, ghastly as it was, might superficially be justified. More than once, when he thought of England's plighted word to defend a small, neighbouring state, when he heard of tens of thousands of England's most stalwart sons leaving home and country, not for aggrandisement, nor gain of any sort, but out of desire to keep England's plighted word, to maintain her honour unsullied, and defend the weak, he felt that he must cast everything aside, and offer himself for the fray. But then he had called himself a Christian, he believed in the teaching of the Prince of Peace. How could a man, believing in the lessons of the Sermon on the Mount, accepting the dictum, "Bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you," do his utmost to murder men who believed in the same Lord as he did?

No, no, it would not do. If Christianity were right, war was wrong. Either Christianity was a foolish thing, an impossible dream, and all our profession of it so much empty cant, or war was something which every Christian should turn from with loathing and horror.

Bob had made no outward profession of Christianity. He had been so far influenced by the spirit of the age, that he seldom spoke about religion, and perhaps many would have regarded him as by no means an exemplary Christian. Nevertheless, deep down in his life was a reverence for Christ and His words. Humanly speaking, the most potent influence in his life was his dead father. Bob, although he had never been inside a Friends' Meeting House, and was not in any way regarded as a member of their community, was one at heart. Either Christ's teaching must be taken to mean what it said, or it was of no value; and Bob took it seriously. Hitherto, it had not clashed with what people had expected of him; but now it seemed to him he must either give up the faith his father had held, or he must hold aloof from this war, and fight for peace.

For days he had seen the trend of affairs, and what they would lead to, and although he had said nothing to any one, he had decided upon the course of his life. Thus it was, when at the tennis party the other men had asked him what he was going to do, he told them.

But he had never dreamed that Nancy would turn from him, never imagined that his decision would separate them. Yes, that was what it meant. If he held fast to his principles, then Nancy was lost to him.

He heard shouts of laughter near by. Those fellows had no doubts, no struggles. They saw the way of duty clearly, and were going to follow it, while he must go in the opposite direction, and thereby lose—oh God, he could not bear it!

He felt himself a pariah. He was no longer wanted, his presence would no longer be tolerated. Even his friend, Dick Tresize, would turn his back on him if he attempted to join him.

"I was tempted to bring my evening clothes, and spend the evening as the Admiral asked me," he reflected; "I'm glad I didn't. I should be frozen out of the house."

He made his way through the gardens towards the garage, where he had left his car; on his way he came across an old gardener, whom he had known for years.

"Well, Master Bob, we be in for a 'ot job."

"I'm afraid we are, Tonkin."

"I wish I was twenty 'ear younger. I'd be off like a shot."

"Where, Tonkin?"

"Off to fight they Germans, to be sure. Why, no young chap worthy of the naame caan't stay 'ome, tha's my veelin'. Tell 'ee wot, they Germans 'ave bin jillus o' we for 'ears, and tes a put-up job. They do 'ate we, and main to wipe us off the faace of the globe. I d' 'ear that the Kaiser ev got eight millyen sodgers. Every able-bodied man 'ave bin trained for a sodger, jist to carry out that ould Kaiser's plans. A cantin' old 'ippycrit, tha's wot 'ee es. But we bean't fear'd ov'm, Maaster Bob. One Englishman es wuth five Germans, 'cos every Englishman es a volunteer, an' a free man. Aw I do wish I wos twenty 'ear younger. Of course you'll be off with the rest of the young gen'lemen?"

But Bob did not reply. He did not want to enter into an argument with the plain-spoken old Cornishman.

When he arrived home, he found that his mother had gone out, and would not return till dinner-time. He was glad for this. He did not want to explain to her why he had come home so early. He felt he could not do so. Besides, her absence gave him an opportunity to think out the whole question again.

Yes, his choice was plain enough. Nancy, the daughter of an English sailor, the child of many generations of fighters, had been carried away by the tide of feeling that swept over the country. Having fighting blood in her veins, she could not understand his feelings. To her it was the duty, the sacred duty, of every healthy young Englishman to defend his country, and none but shirkers, cowards, would stay behind. Therefore, if he stood by his principles, she would cast him off with scorn and contempt. If he continued to hold by what he regarded as the foundation of the teachings of the Prince of Peace, he would lose the girl who was as dear to him as his own life.

Oh, how he longed to join the fray! Pride of race, and pride in the history of that race surged up within him. He, too, had fighting blood in his veins, and he longed to share in the fight. He did not fear death. Once accept the theory of war as right, and death on the battlefield, especially in such a cause, would be glorious. He was young too, and his blood ran warm. What nobler cause could there be than to defend a small people, and to crush the fighting hordes of the Kaiser? And besides all that, there was Nancy. He had been dreaming love's young dream, he had been living in the land of bliss, he loved with a pure, devoted love the fairest girl in the county.

And he could keep her love! From signs which seemed to him infallible, he judged that the Admiral during the last few days had learnt his secret, and had not discouraged him from visiting the house, while Nancy had hinted to him that the time was nearly ripe for him to approach her father, and ask for his consent to their engagement.

But how could he? There were things in the world deeper, more sacred, even than love for a woman—principle, conscience, faith. Could he sacrifice these? Could he trample on the Cross of Christ, in order to embrace the sword, and hold to his heart the woman he loved?

He looked towards the mantelpiece, and saw the picture of his father, whom he had idealised as the noblest man who ever lived. He remembered his teaching, remembered that to him the true man was he who sacrificed everything to principle, to conscience. He looked around among the many books, and noted those his father loved. He took from the table a New Testament, and instinctively turned to the Sermon on the Mount.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God."

"Ye have heard it hath been said, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. But I say unto you, that ye resist not evil, but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also."

And so on and on. How could a man believing in this, grasp the sword to take away the lives of others. The Germans were Christians just as we were; Germany was the home of the Reformation, the home of religious liberty. Was it not Luther who, standing before the greatest tribunal the world had ever known, and having to choose between conscience and death, cried out:

"It is neither safe nor wise for any man to do aught against his own conscience. Here stand I; I can do no other, God help me!"?

No, no, he simply could not. Though he were boycotted, scorned, held up to derision, he could not change. He must be true to his conscience.

But Nancy!

Yes, he must lose Nancy, and the very thought of it made him groan in agony; but he must sacrifice his love rather than his Lord.

He heard his mother come in, and, although he dreaded her coming, he steeled his heart to tell her the truth.

She, too, was full of war news; it had been the common talk at the houses where she had called.

"Bob," she said; and her face was pale, her lips tremulous. "Bob, the thought of it is terrible; but you'll have to go. It is your duty—your country needs you."

She, too, had been fighting a hard battle. A battle between love for her only boy, fear for his safety, and what she believed her duty to her country. The struggle had been hard, but she had determined to make her sacrifice.

"No, I'm not going, mother."

"What, you are going to allow those Germans to crush France and Belgium, and finally conquer and crush us, and never lift a hand in defence?"

Bob was silent.

"You can't mean it, my dear. It's like tearing my heartstrings out to let you go, but you must. I know; you are thinking of me; but I shall be all right. You must do your duty."

"Would he have me go?" and Bob nodded towards his father's picture.

"Your father was a Quaker," she said.

"He was a Christian," and Bob's voice was very low. "That was why he hated war, and denounced it. That is why I am not going to fight."

"Then every brave, true Englishman will despise you."

"That's nothing," replied Bob; and his voice sounded as though he were weary.

"And what of Nancy?"

"Yes, what of her?"

"I know what she feels, I know that——"

"Mother," Bob interrupted, "I can't bear any more just now; and it's no use talking, my mind's made up."

He left the room as he spoke, and soon after, left the house. He did not have any dinner that night, but spent hours tramping the wild moors at the back of the house. The next day he was in misery. Again and again he reviewed the situation, but he could not change. He could not offer himself to be a legalised murderer, for that was how his country's call appealed to him. It was a battle between Calvary and Militarism, and he could not take the side of Militarism.

When he reached the house in the evening, after a long, lonely walk, his mother pointed to a letter lying on the table.

"It's from Admiral Tresize," he said, after he had read it. "He wants me to go up there to dinner, or as soon afterwards as possible."

"You'll go, of course," said the mother eagerly.

"Yes, I'll go. Of course it is too late for me to get there in time for dinner, but I'll go directly afterwards."

"That's right."

An hour later Bob got out his car, and drove towards Penwennack, with a sad heart. He dreaded what he felt sure was coming, and his heart beat wildly with the hope that he might perhaps see Nancy, and make her understand.



CHAPTER VII

When Bob knocked at the door of the house, he realised that he was expected. Without delay the servant opened the door, and without question at once ushered him into the room which went by the name of "the library," though there was but little indication that the apartment was used as a storehouse for books. Nautical charts, globes, pictures of Dreadnoughts, and things appertaining to naval warfare practically filled up all the available space.

As Bob entered, he saw the Admiral seated at a table, with a map of Europe spread before him.

"Ah! Bob," cried the Admiral, "glad to see you. I hoped you would have come in for dinner, but I suppose you were busy. I wanted a chat with you, my boy."

The old man spoke with an obvious endeavour to retain his old friendly footing, but it was evident that he was anxious and somewhat nervous.

"This is a terrible business, my boy," he went on; "who would have thought it a month ago? I, who always believed that the Germans meant war, never imagined it would come upon us like this. But, by gad, they have found us ready this time! Never was the mobilisation of the Army and Navy managed with such speed; everything has gone like clockwork—just clockwork. Of course you know that Dick and George are gone?"

"I heard they were going," said Bob.

"Yes, the young rascals were just mad to go. Naturally I expected it of Dick, who had just finished his training at Sandhurst; but George was just as keen. I am proud of them too. Yes, my boy, I have lost one son in war, and God only knows what it meant to me; but I would rather lose these two as well, than that England should not play her part."

Bob was silent; he knew what the Admiral had in his mind, and what he was leading up to.

"I have been thinking a good deal about you, Bob," went on the old man. "Of course you have been almost one of the family for years; your mother's people and mine have been friends for centuries. Ah! my lad, let the Radicals say what they will, but it's grand to come of a good family. You have to go a long way back in English history before you come to the time when the Trelawneys and Tresizes were not known. They have fought in a hundred battles for their country, and, thank God, their descendants are ready to do it again. It is a great thing to have a good name, eh, my boy?"

"Yes, sir," replied Bob.

"You told me some time ago that you were in the O.T.C. while you were at Clifton College, and Dick says that you quite distinguished yourself. I am very glad of that; I have some influence in military quarters, although I am a naval man, and I can arrange for you to have your commission right away. Of course it will be in a Cornish regiment." He did not refer to the conversation which had passed between the young men two days before, although Bob felt sure he knew of it, but was assuming his enlistment as a matter of course.

"I have not made up my mind to join," said Bob.

"Not made up your mind to join! Then it is time you should. Every young fellow should join in these days. Of course it will break in upon your law studies and the other things you have in your mind, but, God willing, we shall get all this business over in a few months, and then you'll be able to come back to your work. You'll not suffer for it, my boy—you'll not suffer."

"It is not that at all, sir," replied the young fellow.

"What is it, then?"

"You knew my father, sir?"

"Knew him—of course I did! A good fellow and an honest man, but, you will excuse me for saying so, a crank."

Bob was silent; he did not dare let himself speak.

"Your father was a Quaker," went on the Admiral, "but your mother was a Trelawney. She told me only a few days ago that if war came, hard as it would be for her, she would not move a finger to keep you from going, even if it meant your going to your death. Come now, I will do all I can to push things forward for you."

"Thank you, sir," replied Bob, "but—but I have made up my mind that I can't."

"In heaven's name, why?"

"Admiral," said Bob, and his voice became tremulous, "do you think it right for a man to undertake anything which his conscience condemns?"

"No, of course not; what has that to do with it?"

"Everything, sir, to me. War is brutal and devilish, opposed to everything I have been taught to believe."

"Do you mean to say," cried the Admiral, "that you are not convinced of the righteousness of this war? Why, my lad, the thing is as plain as the nose on your face. Have you gone through the papers? Have you read the correspondence between the various ambassadors?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then do you not think that Germany has been planning this war for years, and that she has checked every movement for peace?"

"That is debatable, isn't it, sir?"

"Debatable? No! You are not such a fool as to believe that this war is on account of the Servian assassination? That is a mere flimsy pretext—one of the flimsiest ever known. I have read all about it to-day. Austria had practically agreed to live at peace with Servia, to allow Servia to retain her independence. The trouble was, to all intents and purposes, patched up, and then Germany insisted on an impossible ultimatum. Austria would never have declared war on Servia had not Germany given her orders to do so. Here is a letter written by Sir Maurice de Bunsen, on July 26. He states plainly that Germany wanted war, that she had schemes in Asia Minor which she wanted to carry out. She believed that by war with Servia she would be able to accomplish her purposes. She believed that Russia would keep quiet during the time Austria worked her will, and as de Bunsen says, 'Germany knew very well what she was about in backing up Austria-Hungary in this matter.'"

"Yes, sir, that is all very well, but that does not make war right. Personally, I find it easy to believe that Germany was the aggressor in this case; I believe, too, that Russia decided to stand by Servia not for the sake of the Servians, but for her own interests; that does not justify her in dragging the whole of Europe into war."

"Yes, but are you mad, my boy? The Servian business was only the beginning of it. Of course, when Russia prepared to protect Servia, Germany, knowing that the war she had been trying to bring about must come some time, declared war on Russia. Then, without giving France a chance, she invaded Luxemburg and French territory; don't you see?"

"I do not see how that makes war right, sir."

"No, but when Germany invaded Belgium, broke all treaty rights, and Belgium asked us to protect her what were we to do?"

"Admiral," said Bob, "I believe you pretend to be a Christian."

"Yes, of course I do, but what has that to do with it?"

"Do you happen to believe in 'The Sermon on the Mount'?"

"Good Lord, yes! Isn't it our Lord's own words?"

"Then I want to ask you how a man can reconcile the teaching of 'The Sermon on the Mount' with bloody warfare such as this is to be?"

The Admiral was nonplussed for a moment; he was a simple seaman, and not versed in the philosophy of ethics.

"Look here, my boy!" he cried passionately, "if I know anything about Christianity, it teaches a man to be honourable, truthful, and to keep his word. I would not give a fig for any Christian who did not keep his word. Well, we gave our word to Belgium. The Germans did so, too, but, like the brutes they are, they violated theirs, and when Belgium appealed to us, and asked us to keep our word, could we refuse? Could any Christian refuse? No, by gad, no!"

"But, Admiral, don't you see that——"

"Look here, Bob, I want no more talking. Are you going to back out of your duty, or are you going to play the game like a man?"

"I am going to try to be true to my conscience, sir. As I told you, war to me is unchristian, devilish, and if I enlisted, I should, by so doing, become a paid murderer."

The Admiral rose to his feet, his eyes blazing. For a moment his temper had got the better of him, and, had he been able to speak, he would have hurled at Bob words for which he would have been sorry afterwards. Luckily, he could not. Presently he had gained command over himself.

"I do not think we had better say any more," he said quietly. "I am sorry I have been mistaken in you; sorry that you should have accepted the hospitality of a Pagan home like this. Of course you are not renewing your visits here?"

"But, Admiral!" cried Bob, angry with himself for not weighing his words before uttering them. "I—I——"

"Excuse me," said the old man, "it is no use saying any more. Good night."

He did not offer to shake hands, but went to the bell push. A second later a servant appeared, to whom the Admiral nodded. Without hesitation the man opened the door and held it while Bob passed out, and then led the way to the front entrance. When he had gone, the Admiral threw himself into an arm-chair and heaved a deep sigh; it was like saying good-bye to his own son.

As Bob walked down the hall he felt as if an end had come to all his dreams, and that he was being turned out of the house which he had always looked upon as a kind of second home. Of course Nancy would be aware of the interview, and would learn the result. In bidding good-bye to the house, he was also bidding good-bye to her. The servant had his hand upon the door-knob when he heard the rustle of a woman's dress, and Nancy, pale and eager-eyed, came from an adjoining room.

"Jenkins," she said, "Mr. Nancarrow will not go yet; you need not wait." The man left without a word, and Nancy led the way into the room where she had been sitting.

"I felt, perhaps, that I was not fair to you yesterday, and I thought I would give you another chance of—explaining yourself." Her voice was hoarse and trembling—indeed it did not sound like Nancy's voice at all.

"Oh, Nancy," he said, "I was afraid I should not see you! Thank you for speaking."

"Father told me he had written you," she went on. "I—I hope everything is arranged all right. Bob, do you mean what you said? Do you mean that you are going to play the coward?"

"I am doing the hardest thing I ever did in my life," he blurted out.

"In taking a coward's part?"

"Call it that if you like," was his reply.

They were alone by this time, and the door closed behind them.

"I am trying to be calm," said Nancy. "You know all we had hoped and planned, but—but I don't want to be foolish; there must be deeper reasons than those you mentioned the other day. I do not think you can have realised the circumstances. Since you left, I have done nothing but read—and try to understand. I have been very ignorant about such matters, and I thought, perhaps, my ignorance kept me from understanding you. I have read all the papers which father has been able to obtain, all the miserable story which led up to this war. Have you?"

"Yes," said Bob; "all!"

"Then surely you do not hold to what you said?"

"I am afraid I do."

"Then perhaps you will explain."

"That is what I want to do," cried Bob. "Oh, Nancy, you don't know what I have been through since I left you!—you don't know how I have longed to enlist, longed to take part in the fray—but—there it is. Look here, Nancy, I was never one to talk much about these things, but you knew my father, knew that he was a Quaker, a Christian, in a very real sense of the word. When he died, my mother and others told me they hoped I should be worthy of him, and—I have tried to be. It is difficult to talk about such matters, Nancy, and I am not one of those fellows who parade their piety and that sort of thing. I would not say what I am going to now, but for the circumstances. I have tried to understand what Christianity means. I have read the New Testament, especially the Gospels, again and again. I have tried to realise what Jesus Christ said, what He lived for, what He died for, and I think I have tried to follow him. No, I am not namby-pamby, and this is not empty talk. I expect there are hundreds of young fellows who never talk about religion, but who are trying, honestly and squarely, to live Christian lives. Anyhow, that is what I have tried to do. When this war seemed to be inevitable, I went into the whole business. I read everything I could,—newspapers, state papers, correspondence between the ambassadors, and all that kind of thing. You see, I felt what was coming; and, Nancy, I simply cannot square Christianity with war. Either Jesus Christ was mistaken, and Christianity is an empty dream; or war is wrong—wrong under any circumstances. It is hellish, and I can't stand for it—I can't!"

The girl looked at him with wide open eyes, and her lips trembled, but she did not speak.

"Yes," he went on, "I know what it means. I shall be boycotted, sneered at, called a coward, and all that; but that is nothing, is it? What is much more terrible to me is the fact that I shall—that I shall lose you! You drove me away the other day, Nancy. You did not mean it, did you? You would not have me go against my conscience?"

"Conscience!" there was a world of scorn in her voice. She seemed to be hesitating whether she should not open the door and tell him to leave the house. Perhaps there was something in the tone of his voice, in the expression of his eyes, which kept her from doing this. "Perhaps you have not thought of the other side," she tried to say calmly. "Have you ever thought what it would mean if Germany conquered England—Germany with her militarism and her savagery? Have you thought how she would treat us, what would become of us, and all that we hold most dear?"

"Yes, I have thought of that."

"And would it not be right, if, to save our country, and all our country stands for, if need be, to deluge Europe in blood? Oh, Bob, can't you see?"

"It is never right to do wrong," said Bob. "Is it right to tell a lie that truth may come? Is it right to tell a lie to save any one from pain? Is it right to commit murder to save some one from an even greater calamity? That's nothing but the old Jesuit doctrine of the end justifying the means. But, Nancy, don't let's talk anything more about it. I am tired, weary of it! You love me, I love you. Can't you let me live my own life, carry out the projects I have in my mind, and trust to Providence?"

"What right have we to trust in Providence," asked the girl passionately, "when we stand by and do nothing? Suppose at the end of this war we come off victorious, I suppose that you, who have never lifted your finger to save your country, will think it your right to enter into the benefits which others have won for you? That is your idea of Christianity, I suppose?"

"But war cannot be right."

"I don't know about war in the abstract," cried the girl, "but I do know that this war is. I am not a sophist, and I can't put into words what is in my mind. I am only an ordinary girl; but, Bob"—she raised her voice as she spoke—"if you can stand by while your country is in danger, if you can turn a deaf ear to her call, if you refuse to help, and go on working at your law books while other young men are fighting for their country's honour and safety, then—then—don't you see? We live in different worlds, we breathe different air, and—there is an end to everything."

"Have we tried to understand the German position?" said Bob. "Germany is a Christian country as much as England is; the German people are what Thomas Carlyle calls them, a brave, quiet, patient people. Are we right in attributing evil motives to them?"

"But do you not believe," cried Nancy, "that the Emperor and his ministers planned all this?—that they depended upon the neutrality of England, thinking we would stand by and see a little nation crushed? Everything proves that their object and desire is to crush England, and to dominate the world. You say you have read all about it. Surely you do not believe that Germany is going to war to crush Servia because of the assassination of an Austrian prince? You do not believe in that flimsy pretext?"

"No," said Bob, "I can't say I do."

"And have you thought of this?" said the girl. "When this war was declared, it was not at the time the Crown Prince was assassinated, but when things seemed to be favourable to the Kaiser's plans of aggression. Any one can see how everything fits in. A speech had been made in the French Senate about the unreadiness of that country for war, and then when the President and Foreign Secretary of the French Republic were staying in Russia and could not get back for days, Germany hurled out her ultimatum. War was declared at a time, too, when Russia was believed to be confronted with revolutionary strikes, and was almost bled to death by her war with Japan. It was declared at a time when England was believed to be on the eve of civil war on account of her Irish troubles, and when it seemed that she must, of necessity, remain neutral. Can't you see the fiendishness of the plot? The Kaiser and his creatures thought the time had come when they could begin the war for which they had been preparing."

"Is not that a pure hypothesis?" exclaimed Bob; nevertheless, he was struck with the girl's evident knowledge of affairs.

"Hypothesis!" cried the girl. "Are you mad, Bob? Isn't everything plain? What sense of honour has Germany shown? What desire for peace? She had her plans ready, and she determined to carry them out at whatever cost. To little Luxemburg she promised protection, and yet without even saying 'by your leave,' invaded Luxemburg. Belgium, also, was protected by treaty. Germany, as well as other countries, had plighted her word that Belgium's neutrality and integrity should be respected; yet she sent that infamous ultimatum to Belgium that if the German troops were not allowed to march through the country without opposition, she would be treated as an enemy. Can you think of anything more dishonourable? Why," and Nancy's voice trembled with pain, "I was just mad when I read it in the newspapers, and when afterwards dad showed me the official reports about it, I could scarcely contain myself. The Chancellor of Germany said, 'Yes, we know we have done wrong; we have broken our word to Luxemburg, and violated the treaty we signed; but necessity knows no law. It was a part of our plan to do it, and we did it. We know we signed a treaty that Belgium's neutrality and integrity should be maintained, but you see it did not suit our plans to keep our word, so we broke it. We will make it up to the Belgians afterwards, if they will do what we tell them; but if they will not, we will crush them.' What is honour to a country like that? Can't you see that all along Germany intended to dominate Europe, and because she thought the present time propitious, she was willing to cover herself with dishonour in order to do the thing she wanted?"

"Is there not another side to that?" interjected Bob.

"Another side? How can there be another side? When our Ambassador met the German Chancellor, what took place? The Chancellor had the audacity to make what our Prime Minister called an 'infamous proposal.' He suggested that we should break our word to Belgium, and remain neutral so that Germany could crush France. Then when our Ambassador asked, as any gentleman would ask, 'But what about the treaty we signed?' he replied, 'What is a treaty? A thing to be broken! A scrap of paper! Will you go to war for that?'"

"But consider what war means!" cried Bob. "Does it follow that because the Germans are willing to plunge Europe into war, we should do likewise? Does anything, anything, justify the violation of every law, human and divine?"

"Bob, do please just call to mind what that horrible German, who had not even the first instincts of a gentleman, said, 'Have you counted the cost, and still stand by your honour and plighted word?' As if an English gentleman could ever count the cost when his plighted word was given!"

"Yes," said Bob, "but any statesman ought to count the cost. Think of what it will all mean, Nancy; think of all the hatred, the feelings of devilish revenge, the mad passions that will be roused; think of countries lying waste, think of the whole spirit of war, of the untold misery and horror of it all, and then ask if anything justifies war. I know you have a strong case, but two wrongs cannot make a right. Suppose a man broke his word to me, outraged my feelings, did me great wrong; would that justify my driving a knife into his heart? I should be called a murderer if I did it, and be hanged for my deed. Besides, to come back to where we were just now, Nancy, how could I pretend to be a Christian, if I enlisted, and went to the war for the purpose of killing my fellow-men? Christ said, 'Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you, pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you. If a man smite thee on thy right cheek turn to him the other.' Oh, Nancy, can't you see how utterly opposed Christianity is to the whole ghastly thing? Here is the German Emperor saying to his soldiers, 'Go to church and pray—we are fighting God's battle.' Here are our clergymen saying to our people, 'Go to church and pray—we are fighting God's battle.' How can God answer both our prayers? They believe they are in the right, we believe we are in the right, and so to uphold what we both believe to be right we engage in this hellish business."

"And that is your explanation," she said.

"Yes, Nancy; I cannot, I simply cannot be a soldier and a Christian at the same time. But you will not let this come between us, will you? I am trying to be true to my conscience, to act in accordance with the teaching of the New Testament, and I cannot reconcile Christianity with war."

"Do you believe that we shall win in this fight?" and the girl's voice became hard as she asked the question.

"Yes," said Bob. "Yes, I believe we shall in the end. After rivers of blood have been shed, after horrors worse than can be described have been realised, after tens and tens of thousands of men have been killed, after a whole continent has been desolated, I believe we shall win. We shall be stronger than the Germans because we have such vast numbers of men in reserve; yes, I expect that in the long run we shall be able to dictate terms of peace; yes, I expect that."

"But you believe that no war can be justified?"

Bob shook his head.

"Think," said the girl, "think of the sixteenth century, when Philip of Spain made such great preparations to conquer and subdue England. If he had succeeded, our religion would have been destroyed, our homes taken away from us, our liberty torn from us, our existence as a nation would have been practically wiped out. Do you believe God meant Drake and Hawkins and the rest of them to sit down quietly while the Spaniards invaded our land and destroyed our liberties? Do you believe that?"

Bob was silent.

"No, you do not believe it. You know that had Philip II succeeded there would be no England to-day such as we know. Well, now it comes to this: A greater and a more terrible power than Spain seeks to crush us; but our men, thank God, have not ceased to be Englishmen, and they will safeguard our liberties, and keep for us still the England we love. When the war is over, and all danger is gone, I suppose that you, who stand idly by, and talk about the ethics of war, will think it your right to enjoy the liberties which these brave fellows suffer and die to give you. Is that it?"

"Nancy, that's not fair."

"I want to be fair. Tell me, is that your attitude? It is un-English, and it is cowardly. Is it yours?"

"I will not try to answer you, Nancy—I should be sorry afterwards, perhaps; but—but—Nancy, is everything over between us?"

"That's for you to say."

"For me?"

"Yes, you. You have your choice. I—I had nearly overcome dad's—objections to you."

"But, Nancy, do you mean to say that——"

"I can never marry a man who shrinks from his duty at such a time as this? Yes, I mean that."

"Nancy, you make it a choice between you and my conscience."

For a few seconds she looked at him without speaking. Her lips were quivering, and her hands were trembling. It was easy to see that she was greatly wrought upon.

"No, that is not the choice," she said, and her voice had a hard ring in it.

"What is it, then?"

"A choice between me and cowardice."

He staggered as if some one had struck him. "Do you mean that?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes, I mean that."

Without speaking another word, he staggered blindly out of the house. Nancy heard him close the front door behind him, and then, throwing herself into a chair, sobbed as though her heart would break.



CHAPTER VIII

For the next few days St. Ia was completely under the influence of the war fever. Although we have only about three thousand inhabitants, three hundred of our men belonging to the Naval Reserve left in one day, while many who were away in their fishing-boats were expected to join their vessels as soon as they could return home. Young territorials left the neighbourhood by the score, and many a lad who had previously been laughed at, when wearing his uniform, was looked upon as a kind of hero, and everywhere one turned, the only subject of conversation was the war.

Each morning at eight o'clock, the time at which our newspapers usually arrive, there was such a rush for the train, in order to obtain early copies, as I had never seen before; and presently, when the news came that an army consisting of one hundred thousand men had landed on French soil without even a hitch or casualty, we cheered wildly. Evidently our War-office machinery was in good order, and our soldiers, perhaps the best armed and equipped that ever left our shores, would, we were sure, give a good account of themselves.

Among the older and more staid people the inwardness of the situation was more and more realised. It seemed so strange that the German nation, which a few weeks before was looked upon as a nation of friends, was now spoken of as "the enemy." We held our breaths when we read of the bombardment of Liege, and cheered wildly at the thought of the brave Belgian army holding the forts against the opposing forces, and driving back the hordes of Huns with such valour. "How long will the English take to get there?" we asked again and again. "When shall we come to close grips with them?" Many a mother grew pale as she thought of her boy in the line of battle.

Presently news came of the fall of Liege and the victorious march of the Germans towards Brussels. The terror of the whole thing got hold of us, as we thought of the unfortified capital being seized by the advancing hosts of a great military Power. We troubled very little about French successes or losses in Alsace and Lorraine. We knew that the French, true to their characters, had yielded to sentiment rather than to strategy in making what seemed to us a foolish attempt to win back these provinces. Of course it was only forty-four years ago that they had been taken from them by their conquerors in the Franco-German war. We knew too that, ever since, they had been longing for revenge, longing to win back what they felt to be part of their own country. Naturally we sympathised with the French in this, and tears came to our eyes, and sobs to our throats, when we read how old Frenchmen who had been through the Franco-German war, welcomed the soldiers with wild and tumultuous joy. Nevertheless we knew that victory could not be won by sentiment, and that if the carefully trained German soldiers were to be driven back, there must be strategy on our side equal to theirs, and that the armies must be led, not only courageously, but intelligently. Thus, although we had no proof of the rumour, we rejoiced when we heard that Lord Kitchener had gone to Paris, and by his wise counsels and tremendous personality had altered the whole course of the campaign.

"He's the man!" one would say to another; "he's like the Iron Duke in Boney's time. Nerves like steel, a mind like a razor, and the heart of a lion."

Nevertheless day by day our hearts grew heavier and heavier as we read of the steady German advance towards Paris. "If the capital is taken," men said, "Isn't everything done for?" and then we weighed the pros and cons with all the wisdom of a rustic population.

Another thing added to our discomfort. The lads of Cornwall were not responding as we thought they should, to the call of their country. From all parts of England young men were coming forward, and London was enlisting volunteers at the rate of a thousand a day. Yorkshire and Lancashire proved their devotion and their loyalty. Devon, too, our sister county, more than maintained her traditions. We read how in one little village where only thirty young men lived, twenty-five of them had volunteered. "It is because our boys don't understand, don't realise what we are fighting for," said one to another; and then we heard with delight that Admiral Tresize and the Member of Parliament for St. Ia were arranging for a public meeting, at which truth should be made known.

During this time Bob Nancarrow was much alone. He seldom left the house, neither was he to be seen in any of his old favourite haunts. No one followed the fortunes of the war more closely than he. With almost feverish eagerness he read every item of news, although, by his own decision, he was an outsider. He was torn by two opposing forces. One was the love of his country and his own people, and the other was the voice of his conscience. He thought, when he happened to go into the little town, that people nudged each other significantly as he passed, and made unflattering remarks about him. As a matter of fact, however, no such thing happened. True, there were some who wondered why he remained at home, while all his schoolfellows and friends had volunteered; but many more remembered that he was the son of Dr. Nancarrow, a man who, to the time of his death, was an apostle of peace. Of course the inner circle of his acquaintances knew the truth, but they only talked of it among their own set, and thus Bob's fears were groundless.

One day he was attracted by a large placard which appeared on all the public hoardings headed by the Royal Coat of Arms: "'Your King and Country Need You!' A great meeting will be held in the Public Hall on Thursday night in order to explain why this war has taken place, and why it is the duty of every man to help." It announced also that Admiral Tresize was to take the chair, while, in addition to the local Member, the meeting was to be addressed by Captain Trevanion, who was coming down from Plymouth for this purpose, just before leaving for the front.

"Of course I shan't go," said Bob to himself. "I know the reasons for the war, and I should be in utter misery if I went." Nevertheless he found himself making plans for going.

For several days Mrs. Nancarrow had been cold and uncommunicative, and he knew that a cloud of reserve hung between them. He felt that his mother despised him. He felt sure, too, that she knew all that had taken place at Penwennack—that he was henceforth to be treated, in what he had regarded as his second home, as worse than a stranger.

"There is to be a great meeting at the Public Hall to-night," said Mrs. Nancarrow, on the day of the meeting. "Are you going?"

Bob shook his head.

"There seems to be tremendous enthusiasm about Captain Trevanion's coming down, although, of course, he is no speaker," went on Mrs. Nancarrow. "But you see, the fact of his starting for the front in a day or so, makes him of special interest. I understand that Nancy Tresize is going away as a Red Cross nurse, almost at once."

Bob's heart fluttered wildly as he heard her name.

"Captain Trevanion stayed at Penwennack last night. Naturally the Admiral admires him more than ever. The Captain and Nancy motored to Land's End yesterday afternoon."

Her every word was like a sword thrust into the young fellow's heart. He knew what she meant—knew too, that the Admiral had always favoured Trevanion as a suitor for his daughter. How could it be otherwise, when Trevanion was a man after the Admiral's own heart? He had showed no hesitation about the right of defending his country; rather he had throughout been enthusiastic to a degree, while Bob had hung back. Mad jealousy filled his heart as he realised what might possibly be taking place. Even then, Nancy, in her scorn for the man whom she believed to have been unworthy of her love, might be listening to the pleadings of one who was worthy.

"I expect Nancy will be at the meeting," went on Mrs. Nancarrow. "As you know, she goes almost everywhere with her father, and as the Admiral will take the chair, I expect she will be on the platform."

Bob conjured up the scene. He fancied he saw Trevanion, in his uniform, speaking in a soldier-like fashion about the duty of defending his country, the crowd cheering wildly, while Nancy, carried away by her admiration of the man who accorded with her ideals of how an Englishman should act, would yield to the gallant soldier the love for which he would give his life.

That night, with a kind of savage love for self-torture, Bob made his way to the Public Hall. He got there half an hour before the announced time, and found the place nearly full. All round the walls hung bunting, characteristic of the county. The Cornish Coat of Arms hung over the chairman's table, while the chorus of the old Cornish song:

And shall they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen, And shall Trelawney die? Then twenty thousand Cornishmen Will know the reason why.

was printed in large letters, and hung in a prominent place. At the back of the platform some one had written, "Cornwall has never failed her country yet. Shall she be unworthy of the names of Trelawney, Killigrew, Boscawen, Carew, Tresize, and Trevanion? Never!"

To Bob's chagrin he was led to a seat close to the platform. Evidently the man who took him there, wanted him, as the son of one who had been, perhaps, the most respected man in the town, to have a place of honour.

In a few minutes the audience was singing patriotic songs. It was true that there was something jingoistic about them, nevertheless Bob's heart thrilled. Perhaps there are no people in the whole country whose voices are sweeter than those of the dwellers in our most Western county. His heart caught fire as he listened. Yes, there was something in fighting for home and fatherland, something sublime in dying for a noble cause. Then again the horror of war, the brutal butchery, the senseless hatred, the welter of blood, the blighted lives and homes, arose before him. He knew that the meeting would have no message for him.

Precisely at the time announced the speakers appeared on the platform amidst a tumult of shouting, and then Bob's heart gave a great leap, for he saw that Nancy Tresize, with several other ladies, followed the old Admiral. In spite of himself his eyes were drawn towards her as if by a magnet. He tried to look away from her, but could not, and then, when he least expected it, her gaze caught his. It was only for a second, but that second plunged him into the deepest darkness. He saw the flush that mounted to her cheeks, the smile of derision that passed her lips, and the look of scorn and contempt that expressed itself on her face. He knew then what Nancy felt about him, and that he had lost her—lost her for ever.

I am not going to try to describe the speeches at length—there is no need. The Admiral spoke in a bluff, hearty way about the causes which led up to the war, and then told of the part which the county had always played, and of her great names which had gone down to history. Spoke, too, of the need of men at the present time, and then made his appeal.

After him came the Member for St. Ia. He evidently tried to speak as a statesman on the question. He was listened to respectfully, but without enthusiasm. He was little fitted to explain the intricacies of international politics. Bob felt, during the whole time he was speaking, that he did not know the A.B.C. of his subject, felt that if he had been in his place he would have made a far stronger case for the country and the cause.

Then some one got up and recited some doggerel by a London journalist which was said to be very popular in various parts of the country, but which did not appeal to our Cornish boys at all.

Up to this point the meeting could not be pronounced a success. Crowds were there, and the people were waiting to be caught on fire; but the right spark had not been struck. It only wanted a little to rouse the whole audience to white heat; the train was laid, the powder was set, but no one seemed able to ignite the match. People looked at one another doubtfully. The youths who had been expected to enlist remained cold and almost jeeringly critical. Then the Admiral called for Captain Trevanion.

A feeling of envy came into Bob's heart as the Captain rose. He was wearing his regimentals and looked a soldier, every inch of him; tall, stalwart, straight as a rule. Young and handsome, he bore proudly a name which might be found in the remotest history of his county.

"I am no speaker," he began, "and never pretend to speak; in fact, this is almost the first time that I have tried to address a meeting. I am a soldier; I start in a few days for the front, and I have only come to tell you why I am going."

There was evidence of sincerity in his words, and they were spoken in such a hearty and convincing way that they appealed to every one present. Bob felt it more than any one else. Yes, he envied him. Oh, if he could only take his place! If he could say, "I am going to the front in a few days!"

"I have been working hard, these last weeks," went on Trevanion; "drilling, drilling; training, training; preparing for the fray, and waiting and longing to, hear the command, 'Up, lads, and at them!' Thank heaven the command has at last come!"

His voice rang out clearly, and as he spoke a new light came into the eyes of many.

"And why am I going?" he cried. "Why are tens of thousands of the brave lads from all over the Empire going to France at this time? I'll tell you!"

He was not eloquent. He had no great command of language, but he stirred the hearts of the people, because he told a simple story, which, while from the standpoint of the cold critic it might appear unconvincing, was, when listened to by patriotic Englishmen, full of appeal and power.

He drew two pictures, and although he did it crudely he did it well. He described first a meeting of Cabinet Ministers in Whitehall. These men had for a long time been labouring night and day for peace, and now the final stage had come. They had sent what was in some senses an ultimatum to Germany, and they were now waiting for the answer. War and peace hung in the balance. The time was approaching midnight, and the hour when the final decision was to be made was near at hand. The question they had asked Germany was this: "Will you keep your word to Belgium, or will you violate the treaty you have signed?"

"The Belgians," said Trevanion, "had the promise of the Kaiser to maintain their country's neutrality and integrity. Was that promise to be trusted, or was it a sham and a lie? 'We Britons gave our word,' our statesmen had said, 'and, like Britons, we are going to keep it. What are you going to do? If you prove false, we are going to stand by our promise, if it cost us our last man and our last pound.

"Presently the sound of Big Ben at Westminster boomed across the city. The Germans had not replied. This meant that the Kaiser had played the traitor, that he had torn up the treaty he had signed; and thus when the last stroke of Big Ben sounded across London, the four statesmen looked at each other, and said, 'This means war.' Could they have done any other?" cried the Captain—"could they? No!"

From the hall, rose the many-throated reply, "No, by God, no!"

"Now for another picture," he went on. "It is not in London, not in Whitehall this time; it is in Germany, at Berlin. Our Ambassador there, was speaking to a representative of the German Kaiser, the mouthpiece of the German nation. 'What will you do?' asked the German. 'Surely you English will be neutral?'

"'That depends,' said the Englishman.

"'On what?' queried the German.

"'It depends whether you Germans are going to be true to the treaty you have signed, true to your plighted word.'

"'And if not?' the German asked.

"'In that case,' replied the Englishman, 'we are not going to stand by and see a little state wronged and ruined, because a great nation like Germany, who should keep her word, is playing Belgium false.'

"'Treaty,' questioned the German, 'what is a treaty? Will you go to war with us for that—just for a scrap of paper?'

"'But that scrap of paper means our nation's honour,' the Englishman said.

"'Have you counted the cost?' asked the German, thinking to frighten the Englishman.

"'We English,' replied the British Ambassador, 'are not likely to go back on our word because of fear.'

"The German left him in a passion, and the Englishman said in his heart, 'It is war.'

"Would you have had him give another answer?"

And again a mighty shout from the hall, "No, by God, no!"

"Then do your duty—help us in the fight," cried the Captain. The right note was struck now, and it had been struck by Bob's rival. Oh, how he envied him! He saw that Nancy's eyes were ablaze with joy, that she was moved to the depth of her being; and the man who had moved her to enthusiasm and admiration was the man who wanted the woman Bob loved, and whom he had lost.

"Can any Englishman," went on Captain Trevanion, "stand by after that? If he can, what is he worth? Of course he will make paltry excuses, he will say this and that and the other thing, but what are his excuses worth? I have heard of young fellows, men who have been trained in our public schools, who stand by and refuse to help; what shall we say of them? And you young chaps, healthy, strong, unmarried, without home ties, what if you refuse to respond to the call of your country? I will tell you what I think of you: you are white-livered cowards."

Again the audience cheered, and Captain Trevanion, fired by the enthusiasm he had roused, became almost eloquent. He knew he had the grip of his audience, and his words came more easily.

"I want to appeal to you girls," he went on. "Your sweethearts are sitting by you: well, a fellow who is such a coward as to refuse to fight for his country isn't worth having. Tell him so, shame him into being a man!" he cried, and his voice rang out, as though he were giving orders on parade.

"What shall we do?" shouted a voice in the hall.

"Make them feel what cowards they are. Here," and he laughed as he spoke, "I have in a basket a lot of white feathers; I think they might be of use. Any of you girls who know men who are hanging back from cowardice, just give them a white feather, and never speak to them again until they have wiped away their disgrace." He took up the basket and held it out. "There," he said, "I have finished my speech: men and women do your duty!"

As he sat down the whole meeting was in a state of wild uproarious enthusiasm.

A few minutes later the hall began to empty itself, although a number of people remained behind to discuss the situation. An old retired sergeant of seventy years of age stayed with a number of young fellows who lingered behind, and as they stood near to Bob he could hear every word that was said.

"Come, you chaps," said the sergeant, "aren't you going to be men? aren't you going to fight the Germans?"

"Why shud us?" they asked. "What 'ave we got 'ginst the Germans?"

"Would you like the Germans to conquer your country? would you like to have the Kaiser for a king?"

"Dunnaw: why shudden us?" replied one.

"Laive they that want to fight the Germans, fight 'em—we bean't goin' to," said another. "Why shud we all git killed to plaise Members of Parliament?"

"I be sheamed ov 'ee," cried an old man near; "you bean't worthy to be called Englishmen."

"Why bean't us?"

"'Cos you be cowards. Wud 'ee like to be traited like they Germans be?"

"From oal accounts they be a darned sight better on than we be," was the reply.

"Wot do 'ee main?"

"Why," laughed a young fellow, "at the last general election one of the spaikers, I doan' know who 'twas, but the one that talked Tariff Reform, zaid that the Germans was a lot better off than we be. He zaid that the Germans was fat, and that we was lean, and that the Germans had better times, shorter hours, and higher wages than we've got. Ef tha's so, we'd be a lot better off under the Germans than we be now."

"Bean't 'ee Englishmen?" cried the old man. "Bean't 'ee goin' to fight and keep 'em from England?"

"I bean't goin' over there to git killed—not me. I knaw trick worth two of that"; and then shamefacedly the whole lot of them left the hall without enlisting.

Bob's anger rose as he listened. "What mean cowards they are!" he said to himself; "I feel almost ashamed to be a Cornishman. Of course scores of our boys are playing the game like men, but these creatures make one sick." A moment later his face became crimson with shame. Was he not doing the same? Yes; his reasons were different, and of course he could have made a better case for himself than they did, but was he not a shirker just as much as they were? Then all such thoughts were driven from his mind in a second, for down the platform steps, with the evident intention of passing into the hall, came Admiral Tresize, Captain Trevanion, and several ladies, among whom was Nancy. At first he felt as if he must rush out of the hall, but his feet seemed rooted, he could not move. Captain Trevanion and Nancy came towards him.

"Now then, Nancarrow, have you enlisted yet?" asked Trevanion. "You should, as an old O.T.C. man. I find that hosts of the fellows from Clifton College have enlisted. Aren't you going to?"

Bob did not speak, he could not. He heard the sneer in the Captain's voice, saw the look of contempt on his face, and he knew why he spoke. But he could not understand why Nancy stood waiting as if with the intention of speaking to him. He knew that he cut a poor figure compared with Trevanion, and that to Nancy he must seem a slacker, a wastrel. Still he could not speak nor move. He felt that the girl's eyes were upon him, felt contempt in her every gesture, her every movement. She came up close to him.

"Aren't you going to help to uphold your country's honour?" she said, and her voice quivered with excitement. Evidently she was deeply moved.

He felt as if the room were whirling round. He thought he noted a sign of pleading in her voice, and that her eyes became softer. It seemed to him that she was giving him his last chance. He could not speak, he could only shake his head.

"Then allow me to present you with this," she went on, and she held out a white feather. "I am sure you must be proud of it, and that you will wear it honourably, especially at such a time as this."

The insult pierced his heart like a poisoned arrow. He knew that her intention was to heap upon him the greatest ignominy of which she was capable. There were not many people in the room, but there were some who must have seen her action. As for Trevanion he turned away his head with a laugh.

"Come, Captain Trevanion," said Nancy, "we must be going." She took hold of his arm, and they walked out of the hall together.

Bob made a stride forward as if to follow them. He wanted to hurl defiance at them, wanted to tell her that her action was mean and contemptible, unworthy of an Englishwoman. Wanted to—God knows what he wanted. His brain was whirling, everything seemed to be mad confusion, but he only took one step; the uselessness of it all appealed to him. What could he do, what could he say? He had made his decision, taken his stand, and must be ready to suffer.

Then he remembered what Captain Trevanion had said at the close of the golf match:

"In this field of battle you have beaten me, but in the next I shall be the conqueror."

"Yes," said Bob, and he silently made his way home. "I have lost her. I have lost everything, but what could I do?"



CHAPTER IX

"Mother," said Bob, on his return home, "I shall be leaving St. Ia to-morrow morning."

"What! going away, Eh?" said Mrs. Nancarrow, looking at him searchingly. For days she had been hoping that he would see it his duty to offer himself to his country, and yet all the time dreading the thought of parting from him.

"Where are you going?"

"To Oxford," he replied.

"Then you are not going to enlist?"

He shook his head. "I am going to Oxford," he repeated.

"Bob, my dear, we have not seemed to understand each other just lately. I am afraid I spoke unkindly to you the other day, and as a consequence there has been a lack of trust. Won't you tell me all about it?"

"There is nothing to tell, mother; I simply cannot do what you expect me to, that is all. You see I believe in what my father taught me," and he looked towards the fireplace, over which hung Dr. Nancarrow's picture. "Perhaps it is in my blood, perhaps—— I don't know; anyhow, I think my hand would shrivel up if I tried to sign my name as a soldier."

"But you have a mother, Bob, a mother whose name was Trelawney, and the Trelawneys have never failed in time of need. Are you going to be the first to fail, Bob? Oh, please don't think I do not dread the thought of your going to the front, and perhaps being killed; but I cannot bear the thought that my boy should shirk his duty to his country. Tell me, Bob, why do you want to play the coward?"

"Play the coward! Great God, mother! don't you understand me? I simply long to go. It seems to me as though everything in life worth having depends on my doing what you and others want me to do. But how can I! I hate talking about it, it sounds so pharisaical, but my father wanted me to be a Christian, and you know what Christianity meant to him. As I have said again and again, it comes to this—either war is wrong and hellish, or Christianity is a fable. Both cannot be right. And if I went as a soldier I should have to renounce my Christianity—at least that is how it seems, to me. If I went to a recruiting station I should have to go there over Calvary; that is the whole trouble."

Mrs. Nancarrow sighed.

"Think, mother," went on Bob, and again he looked towards his father's picture. "Do you believe he would have me go?"

"Why are you going to Oxford?" she asked.

"I want to see my father's old friend Renthall."

"And get strengthened in your Quaker opinions, I suppose?"

"I have heard nothing about them lately, at all events," said Bob, and his voice became almost bitter. "It would seem as though we had accepted a new Gospel which has taken the place of the New Testament. Big guns are believed in rather than the Cross. But there is no use talking any more. Good night."

The following morning Bob made his way to the little station at St. Ia in order to catch an early train for London. When he arrived there he saw that it was the scene of unusual excitement. A great crowd of people had gathered, many of whom evidently had no intention of travelling by train. A few minutes later he saw the reason for this. Admiral Tresize's motor-car was driving up, containing not only the Admiral himself, but Captain Trevanion and Nancy. No sooner did the people see them, than there was a wild shout. Evidently the Captain, since the meeting, had become a kind of hero, and the fact that he was starting for the front added fresh lustre to his name.

"We'll see you back again by Christmas," some one shouted. "The Germans will be licked by that time, and you will be a Colonel at least. Oh, we don't fear for you—you will be all right."

"It was a fine speech you gave, Trevanion," said another. "By George, that idea of giving a white feather to all the shirkers was just fine. I hear that the basket is nearly empty."

"I am afraid I cannot claim the credit for that," laughed the Captain.

"Who suggested it, then?"

"Oh, it was Miss Tresize here. She thinks it such a disgrace for any man to shirk at such a time as this, that she thought they should be shamed to some sense of decency and pluck."

"Three cheers for Miss Tresize!" shouted some one, and a minute later, Nancy, half-angry and half-pleased, was blushing at the shouts of her friends.

Bob felt himself to be a complete outsider. He too was going by that train, but no one thought of cheering him—indeed, no one spoke to him. He was what the people called a shirker. He would have given anything he possessed to have gone up to Trevanion, and said, "I'll go with you," but he could not. If he did, he would have to uproot the Faith of a lifetime.

The Captain moved towards the carriage which was close to his own, Nancy accompanying him. Bob knew that the girl saw him, but he might not have existed as far as she was concerned. She spoke gaily, and her face was wreathed with smiles, but the smiles were not for him, they were for the man who was going to fight for his country.

The Admiral and the Captain also saw him, but neither spoke. They seemed to regard him as one who henceforth could not be one of themselves.

"A man must pay his price, I suppose," reflected Bob. "If he does not shout with the crowd, he is despised by it. I knew that when I made up my mind, but I never thought it would be so hard. She thinks I am a coward—the cowardice would lie in doing what she wants me to do."

"Well, good-bye, Captain: a fine time to you; come back safe to us. You shall have a great homecoming," shouted the Admiral. "There, another cheer, lads; he is going to fight for his country," and amidst wild shouting Trevanion entered the carriage, while only looks of derision and scornful glances were directed towards Bob.

Arrived in London, Bob caught the first train for Oxford, and before it was dark entered that classic city. But it was not the Oxford he knew; an indescribable change had come over everything. When he had left it, the streets were full of undergraduates, who with merry jest and laughter had thronged the public places. The colleges then were all on the point of breaking up, and the students, wearing their short, absurd little gowns, made Oxford what it ordinarily is in term time. Now the streets were comparatively empty, many of the colleges had been taken by the Government in order to be made ready to receive wounded soldiers. There were no shouts of jubilation, for the news in the papers that day saddened the hearts of the people. The German army was steadily driving back the Allied forces towards Paris. Whispers were heard about the French Government's being shifted to Bordeaux. It seemed as though Germany were going to repeat the victories of forty-four years before, when the great debacle of the French nation startled Europe. Business was at a standstill. How could the city be gay when the English soldiers were being driven back with enormous losses?

"They called it a strategical retreat," Bob heard some one say as he stood outside the door of The Mitre. "I do not believe in strategical retreats—it is not like the English to run away."

"Ah! but General French is only carrying out his plans," said another.

"Well then, they're mighty poor plans," was the response.

It seemed to Bob as though a cloud of gloom hung over this old university town.

His luggage having been taken to the hotel, he found his way into the dining-room, and the waiter, whom he had known for years, came up to him and spoke familiarly.

"Bad times, Mr. Nancarrow," he said. "Oxford won't be a university town now, it'll be a barracks town. I suppose you have come up for training. Yes, hosts of the young gentlemen have. We shall send out one of the finest Companies in the British Army, from Oxford. It's grand, sir, it's grand, the way you young gentlemen come up at this time. After all, your learning is no good at a time like this; it do not save the country, sir. We want fighting chaps."

Bob sat down at a little table and picked up the menu.

"Yes, sir," went on the waiter. "It is splendid, the way the young gentlemen are coming up, and I say a man isn't a man if he stays at home at a time like this. I wish I was ten years younger, I'd be off like a bird."

"It's the same everywhere," reflected Bob, "wherever I go I seem to have poisoned arrows shot at me. I don't care what this fellow thinks about me, and yet I am ashamed to tell him that I have not come up for training, at all."

"By the way," he said to the waiter in order to stop his garrulous talk, which was becoming painful to him, "will you ring up Dr. Renthall, and ask him if he can see me in about an hour's time?"

A little later Bob was out in the streets again, on his way to Dr. Renthall's house. It was a relief to him to feel that here, at least, was one man who would understand his position. After the experiences of the last two or three weeks the Professor's study would be indeed a haven of rest.

Bob was not kept waiting at the door. The Professor's old serving-man knew him well, and showed him into the study without any delay whatever.

"I am glad to see you, Nancarrow," said the Professor. "Oxford has been a strange city to me these last few weeks; even here, in my den, I cannot get away from the strife and turmoil. Tell me what you have been doing, and how you have been getting on."

"I have been like one in an enemy's country," was the young fellow's reply, and then he briefly told him what had taken place.

"The thing that troubles me," said the Professor, "is the utter failure of Christianity. All our old ideas seem to have gone by the board. Even many of my Quaker friends have got the war spirit and are no longer sane. It is true we have placards all over the town calling us to prayer, but as far as Christianity is concerned it seems as dead as Queen Anne."

"Then what is your attitude?" asked Bob.

A few minutes later the Professor was explaining the beliefs which he had for long held so strongly, and Bob listened greedily. He spoke not only of the horror of war, but of its unrighteousness and of its futility.

"We talk about the country going into war for the sake of honour," he said warmly. "But has there ever been a war in which we have not made the same plea, and how much honour has there been in it all? What honour was there in the Boer War? What honour has there been in half the wars we have made? In the main it has all been a miserable game of grab. How much was the Founder of Christianity considered when we bombarded Alexandria? How much of the Sermon on the Mount was considered when we went to war with those Boer farmers?"

"Yes, yes, I know," replied Bob. "But isn't this war different? I am not thinking now of the righteousness or unrighteousness of many of the wars of the past; the thing which troubles me is just this: Is it ever right to go to war? Can a nation, according to Christian principles, draw the sword? Mind you, I have gone into this business as carefully as I have been able. I have read everything that I can get hold of which bears on it, and I cannot close my eyes to the fact that as far as justice and righteousness go we are in the right. I have but little doubt that the Kaiser is playing his own game; he wants some of the French Colonies, he also wants to extend his power in Asia Minor. In order to do this he has for years been perfecting his army and strengthening his navy. But here is the question: Can a nation like England, according to Christian principles, engage in a bloody war in order to crush any one or anything?"

"Impossible!" cried the Professor.

"Then, according to you," went on Bob, "the Kaiser should be allowed to work his will without protest? He should be allowed to crush France, to violate his promises to Belgium, and to carry out his purposes, whatever they may be, without resistance on our part."

"I do not say that," replied the Professor. "I only say that war is never a remedy, and that by trusting in the sword we only add wrong to wrong, and thus keep back the day of universal brotherhood. Think what this war has done, even although it has scarcely begun. It has destroyed the good work of centuries. A few months ago, we in England had only kind feelings towards the Germans. We regarded them as friends. We spoke of them as a great Protestant people. To-day, the bitterness and hatred of all England is roused against them. On every hand the Germans are being distrusted and abused. Think what this means? It has put back the clock of Christianity, it has aroused hatred instead of love, and the whole country is being carried off its feet by militarism. Even from the pulpit has gone forth the cry of battle. Militarism has overwhelmed Calvary, and Christ and all that He stood for have been swept away amidst the clash of arms."

"Yes," was Bob's reply. "But that does not seem to me to solve the present difficulty. My point is this: What ought one to do at the present time? Of course, it is easy to say that this war ought never to have begun. Easy to believe, too, that all wars mean hell let loose upon earth. We can urge that those old treaties ought never to have been signed, that alliances ought never to have been formed. But that does not help us forward. We have to face the situation as it is. We did sign the treaty and promise our support. There is an Entente Cordiale between us and France. On the other hand, there is very little doubt that Germany means to crush France. She means also to dominate the life of the world. War has been declared, Germany has marched across Luxemburg, through Belgium, into France. England, in response to the plea of Belgium, is fulfilling her promise, and scores of thousands of our soldiers are fighting on the side of the French. The cry is for more men. On every hand one is appealed to to join the Army. Now then, what ought one who is trying to be a Christian, to do?"

"There is only one thing to do, it seems to me," was Professor Renthall's reply. "That is for him to follow the leadings of his conscience and leave results to God. When Jesus Christ called His disciples, He made them no alluring promises; in accepting His call, they simply followed Him regardless of consequences. That, it seems to me, is the position to-day. We have nothing to do with this wild war spirit. There are a few men in England, thank God, who protest against war, and it is for them to be true to the light that is within them, no matter what the result may be. Of course, we are told that if we do not crush Germany our liberties will be destroyed and our Empire taken from us. What have we to do with that? We believe in an over-ruling Providence. Believing that, and knowing that Christ is the Prince of Peace, we must absolutely refuse to meet force with force, bloodshed with bloodshed."

Bob stayed a long time with the Professor, and when he left he was more than ever convinced that he had done right. A Christian could not participate in this war, and still be true to his Christianity.

In spite of this, however, there was something at the back of his mind which told him that the Professor was not right. He could not tell what it was; nevertheless, it was there.

It was eleven o'clock when he left Dr. Renthall's house, and then, instead of going back to his hotel, he wandered away in the opposite direction towards the country.

Heedless of time, and forgetful of everything in the maze of his own thoughts, he went farther than he had intended, and presently, when he heard the sound of a clock striking midnight, he realised that he was staying at an hotel, and ought to have been back long since.

No sooner had he turned, however, than he was startled by a cry of fear and pain. It was the cry of a woman's voice too, and, acting upon the impulse of the moment, he rushed to the spot whence the sound came.

Near by was a little village, every house of which was in darkness. At first he could see nothing, then he heard the sound of struggling coming from a lonely lane close by the village.

"Give it me, I say, or I'll murder you."

It was a man's voice, raucous and brutal.

"No, no, you may kill me if you like, but I won't," a woman's voice replied.

Bob saw the man lift his hand to strike her, but before it fell he had rushed upon him, and hurled him aside.

"Who are you, and what do yer want?" cried the fellow, interlarding his question with foul epithets.

"No matter who I am, or what I want," replied Bob. "Leave that woman alone."

The man eyed Bob for a moment, stealthily, and then without warning rushed upon him.

A minute later the two men were struggling wildly. The man was strongly but clumsily built, and lacked the agility and muscular force of the young athlete. But Bob's victory did not come easily. Again and again the fellow renewed his attack, while the woman stood by with a look of terror in her eyes.

"Save me," she cried, again and again, "or he will kill me."

At length, by a well-planted blow, Bob sent his opponent staggering to the ground. The man was stunned for a second, but only for a second. He raised himself to his feet slowly.

"All right, guv'ner, you have beaten me," he said. "It wasn't my fault; if she weren't so b—— obstinate, there would have been no trouble."

Then evidently hearing some one near by, he shouted aloud: "I say, Bill, come here;" and Bob realised that a new danger was at hand.

"Wait a minute, guv'ner," said the fellow, "I just want to ask your advice." But Bob was too alert to be caught in this way. Believing that there must be a police station in the village, he, too, shouted aloud.

"Help!—help!"

A minute later he found his position doubly dangerous. The one man he, after a severe struggle, had been able to overcome, but he knew that he would be no match for the two, and that the woman would be at their mercy.

"Get away while you can," he said to her; but the woman did not appear to heed him—she seemed spellbound by what was taking place.

Both men rushed on him madly, and only by a trick which he had learned as a boy did he save himself. Tripping one of them up, he was able at the same time to parry the other's blow, and keep him at bay.

His position, however, was desperate, for the second man had again risen to his feet, and prepared for another attack.

Then suddenly it was all over, the heavy thud of a policeman's truncheon was heard, and a few minutes later, with Bob's help, the two men were led away to the police station.

"Lucky for you I was near by, sir," said the constable.

"Lucky for the poor woman too," was Bob's rejoinder.

"I've had my eye on these two blackguards for a day or two," replied the policeman. "They are a bad lot, and I do not think the woman is much better than they are. Tell me exactly what happened, sir?"

The policeman nodded his head sagely when Bob had finished his story.

"Yes, sir," he said, "you have done a good night's work. I am afraid I shall have to take your name and address, because you will be called upon as witness against them. You have helped me to put my hand upon a nice little plot, and if these fellows don't get six months, I am very much mistaken."

When Bob got back to his hotel that night, and was able to think calmly of what had taken place, he was considerably perturbed.

Of course the incident in itself was sordid enough. The woman was supposed to be the wife of one of these men, and Bob by his intervention had hindered what might have been a brutal tragedy.

But that wasn't all. The thing was a commentary on his conversation with Dr. Renthall.

Two days later Bob appeared at the police court against these men, and heard with satisfaction the Magistrates sentence them both to severe punishment.

There is no need for me to tell the whole story here, a story of cruelty and theft. The fellows received less than their due in the sentence that was pronounced, and Bob felt that he had freed society, for some time at all events, of two dangerous characters.

The local papers made quite a feature of the case and spoke with great warmth of Bob's courage, and the benefit he had rendered the community.

"I say, Nancarrow," said Dr. Renthall, when next they met, "they are making quite a hero of you. I must congratulate you."

"On what?" asked Bob.

"On the part you played in that affair."

"I am all at sea," was the young man's rejoinder. "It seems to me that according to Christian principles I should have done nothing. If I had literally interpreted the dictum: 'If a man strike thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also,' I should have allowed the fellow to work his will without opposition. But you see, I could not stand by and see that fellow ill-treat the woman. That was why, before I knew what I was about, I was fighting for life. Do you think I did right?"

"I see what you are driving at," replied the Professor, "and I admit you were in a difficult position."

"You said the other night," said Bob, "that force was no remedy. Perhaps it is not a remedy, but it seems to me necessary. After all, if you come to think about it, the well-being of the community rests upon force. But for force that brute would perhaps have killed the woman. But for force the two fellows would have killed me, but it so happened that the police came up and saved me, and a policeman represents force, both moral and physical. No, force may not be a remedy, but without it, while society is as it is, everything would be chaos and mad confusion."

"You are thinking about the war, I suppose," said Dr. Renthall.

"One can scarcely think about anything else," replied Bob. "I am all at sea, Professor—simply all at sea. Oh! I confess it frankly—I admit that I acted on impulse the other night. My one thought was to master that fellow, and if I had been driven to extremes, I should have stopped at nothing, to keep him from harming the woman. For the moment there was no thought of love, no thought of brotherly feeling in my heart, I simply yielded to the impulse of my nature. The man threatened to kill his wife, and if I had not defended her I should have been unworthy to be called a man. How does that square with Christianity? Was I wrong?"

"I think you were right," said the Professor slowly. "Yes, I am sure you were."

"Then, if I were right," replied Bob, "and Germany is acting in the same spirit as that fellow was acting, is not England right in going to war? We promised to defend the Belgians, and Germany with brutal arrogance swept into their country."

"Yes," replied Renthall; "but would it not have been better for Belgium to have acted on the spirit of non-resistance? If they had, Liege would never have been bombarded. All the atrocities at Louvain would never have been heard of."

"You mean, then," said Bob, "that they should have allowed a bully like Germany to have swept through their country, without resistance, in order that they might crush France? Don't you see? If it were right for me to defend the woman against a brute; if I were right in knocking down that fellow; if the police were right in taking them both to the police station; if the Magistrates were right in sending them to prison; was not England right in attacking Germany? Nay, was she not acting in a Christian spirit in saying: 'This bully shall be crushed.'"