"But certainly, madame."

"And when the war is over, and if you return this way, you will call and see me, won't you? Adieu, monsieur, and the good God be with you."

Bob felt all the better for the old woman's simple talk. She was only a commonplace old dame, but a kindly heart beat in her bosom. After all, this war, ghastly as it was, was bringing a thousand noble qualities to light, and it was certainly bringing the French and the English more closely together. There was a bond of sympathy, of brotherhood, existing, which was never felt before.

When they left the town, they were followed by shouts of thanks and good fellowship. Laughter and merry words were heard too. France was being baptized with molten iron and blood, but she was still light of heart. She was still true to her characteristics.

"Here, Nancarrow," said Captain Pringle, as they watched the men board a train. "You can talk this blessed lingo like a native. I can't get my tongue around the words, and they talk so fast that I can't understand them. Here's an old chap wants to say something," and he turned towards an old military-looking man, who saluted Bob, and then bowed profoundly.

"Monsieur," said the old man, "I only wanted to bid you God speed. Yes, yes, you English have saved us. But for you they, the German pigs, bah! would have been in Paris before now. They would have repeated 1870. I was in that debacle, monsieur, and I know what I felt. If we had been willing to violate our treaty and had fallen back on Belgian territory, we might have saved ourselves. But no, a treaty was a treaty, and our word was given. Death rather than dishonour, monsieur! But they haven't had another Sedan this time. And why? It was because you English turned the scales. Ah, but you English can fight, and you are good comrades. Monsieur, I salute you! We shall win, mon capitaine."

"We'll give them a run for their money, anyhow," said Bob, dropping into colloquial French.

"Good, monsieur; that's it. And you are doing it for honour's sake. We lost in 1870, because we would not violate what those German pigs called a 'scrap of paper,' and now you are going to save us for the same thing. All for 'a scrap of paper.' They do not know what honour is! They cannot understand. But we shall win. We are driving them back. They are nearly at Mezieres now. They will soon be over the border. And then!"

"And then—— Yes, then we shall see what we shall see. But thank you for your good wishes, monsieur."

Train after train moved slowly out, while old women waved their handkerchiefs and young girls threw kisses, and all poured out their blessings. The thing that seemed to impress them was that England, who had nothing to gain, and who needed not have taken any part in the war, was throwing all her great weight on their side for the sake of the Entente Cordiale, and for the sake of our honour.

A few hours later Bob found himself in Paris. Several of the trains had gone by another route, but both Bob and Captain Pringle, with many others, were ordered to Paris. Here they stayed one day, and then went on to the front.

Although he had often heard how the British soldier was loved in Paris, Bob had no conception of the truth until he got there. The attention which he and Captain Pringle received was embarrassing. Wherever they went they were watched and followed, while remarks of the most complimentary nature were made about them. Even in the restaurant where they went for dinner a number of Frenchmen entered with them, and insisted on paying for their repast.

"No, no, messieurs," they exclaimed, when Bob protested; "but you are our guests. You come as our friends, you come to help us to fight our battles. Your visit must cost you nothing. Vive l'Angleterre!"

Both men and women vied with each other in courteous acts. They insisted on shaking hands again and again, they plied them with cigarettes, while Bob was very much confused by two elderly dames, both of whom insisted on kissing him on both cheeks.

"What would you?" they cried. "We are each old enough to be your mother. Besides—ah, the good God knows what is in our hearts; have we not sons fifty miles away, fighting for France? We shall win, monsieur! Do you not think so? With such gallant men as you to help us we cannot fail. The Germans are pigs, devils; but we have driven them back, back! Soon they will be out of France."

In the streets it was sometimes difficult for them to get along. On every hand people came up and insisted on shaking hands. But few of them could speak English, and they imagined that Bob was just as ignorant of French.

Again and again they received slaps on the back, while cries of "Good old Sport!" reached them.

Indeed, this was the popular form of salutation. It was nearly all the English many of them knew, and appearing to believe that this was the British form of salutation, they indulged in it freely.

At length their duties in Paris were at an end, and then Bob, with a strange feeling at heart, mounted a train which was to take him to within a short distance of the line of battle.

They had not long left the French capital, before Bob realised that he was passing through country which not long before had been the scene of carnage. The train passed slowly along, and was often held up owing to the terrible exigencies of war.

"Do you see that, Nancarrow?" said Pringle, pointing to a field in which wheat had been planted, but which had never been garnered. Indeed it would be impossible to garner it. It had been trampled under foot by tens of thousands of hurrying feet.

Here and there they saw trenches that had been hastily dug, and then discarded when they were no longer of use. Repeatedly they saw the ruins of villages, some of which had been wantonly, barbarously destroyed by the invading foe.

It was a warm day, windless and clear, and as the train stopped at roadside stations or drew up at sidings, they could not help being impressed by the peace which seemed to reign. The birds still sang on the tree branches, cattle still lowed in the fields, and peasants still worked on their little farms.

"If one closed one's eyes, it would seem as though war were impossible," said Bob.

"Yes, but you'd be quickly undeceived when you opened them," replied Pringle. "Look at those trees!" and he pointed to a small wood, where charred trunks of trees, splintered branches, and blackened leaves told their story.

"I expect some of our men were there, or the Germans thought they were," said Pringle, "and so they——" and he shrugged his shoulders significantly.

"Perhaps some poor beggars may be lying wounded around there even yet," suggested Bob.

"I don't think so. As far as I can learn, the whole line has been carefully searched, and every man that could be saved has been. But, by God, the thought of it is awful!"

"Yes, no one knows what may have happened in a firing-line hundreds of miles long. It must have been hell."

What struck them forcibly, however, was the cheerfulness of the peasantry. At the little roadside stations the people crowded around the trains and cheered the soldiers.

"Yes, monsieur," said one old farmer, "my little house was destroyed—burnt to the ground. I had lived there ever since I was married, and all my children were born there. Two of them, grace a Dieu, are at the front now. Where do we live? Ah, monsieur, they spared a barn, and we are there now. It's not so bad as it might be, and we are cheerful."

"And your harvest?" asked Bob.

"Ah, that was saved. It was in the fields in small stacks, and not yet brought to the yard. Had it been, it would have been burnt with the house. The turnips and the mangolds are still in the field, badly trampled, but not destroyed. Oh yes, it might have been worse, much worse—with us. Thank God, we had no daughter at the house."

"Why do you thank God for that?"

"Need you ask, monsieur? Those Germans are devils, devils! Ah, here is Jules Viney; let him tell you what he has had to suffer."

And then an elderly man told a story which I will not here set down. It was too horrible, too heart-rending. Bob's heart sickened as he heard it, and he found his teeth becoming set as he vowed to fight long as God gave him breath.

"She was but little more than a child, either," cried the man, who was trembling with passion, "and had only a year or two ago made her First Communion. As fair and as pure a child as ever God made. But, thank God, she is dead!"

"Dead?"

"Dead, yes! How could she live after those devils from the deepest hell—— But she took her own life, and she is with the saints."

"And this is the fruits of the German culture, when it is overruled by the War God," thought Bob. "Great God, I did not believe that these stories could be true!"

About two o'clock the train stopped at a siding, where an official told them they must remain for at least an hour.

"Things have been terrible here," said the man; "a terrible battle was fought all around," and he waved his arms significantly.

"Let's get out," said Bob. "I see some trenches over yonder. I remember reading about an engagement here."

A few minutes later they were face to face with evidences of battle. The whole country-side was devastated. Everything had been swept away by the hordes who breathed out death. Sickening debris was seen on every hand. Swarms of flies and insects had fastened upon heaps of filthy garbage. Nothing was seen of comfortable homesteads but charred, smoke-begrimed walls. Exploded shells lay around. Great excavations, the work of huge bombs, were seen on every hand. All around, too, they could see the carcases of horses, killed in battle, the bones of which were beginning to appear. The smells were horrible.

"Let's get away from this!" said Pringle; "it's worse than any hell I ever dreamed of."

But Bob refused to move. He seemed to be fascinated by what he saw. He loathed the sickening sights which met his gaze, but he could not tear himself away.

"See the hundreds of little mounds!" he cried. "They will be the graves of the fellows who fell here. Don't you remember what we read in the papers? When the Germans retreated, a number of men were left behind to dig little graves, and throw the dead into them."

"Come away, I tell you!" shouted Pringle.

"This is the beginning of war's aftermath, only the beginning—but, great God, think of it! What is that?"

"What?"

"Surely that's some one alive over there! Don't you see? In the ditch yonder."

As if by a magnet the two men were drawn to the spot to which Bob had pointed.

"It's a man, anyhow," said Pringle.

"No, there are two."

"They are alive."

"No, they are dead."

A few seconds later they reached the spot, and saw what they will never forget, if they live twice the years allotted to man.

In a dry ditch, locked in each other's embrace, were two dead soldiers, one a Frenchman, the other a German. Both had evidently been wounded, but they had engaged in a death struggle. They had fought to the deaths without either conquering the other, and they had died in each other's arms.

There was no look of fury or hatred in the face of either. The hand of death had smoothed away all traces of this. Nevertheless, it had been a duel to the death.

They were little more than boys, perhaps about twenty-four, and both were privates. Their faces proclaimed their nationalities even more plainly than their uniforms.

"I expect they had never seen each other before," said Bob, like one thinking aloud; "they bore no enmity towards each other."

"Except that one was French and the other German," said Pringle. "That was enough for them. Somehow they found themselves together, and fought it out. I expect it was at night time. By God, it's ghastly, isn't it? And this is war!"

"No, it's only the shadow of it, the aftermath. There are no groans here, no suffering. It's peace, but it's the peace of horrible, unnatural death. We shall see real war presently."

"Come, let's get away. It's sickening."

"The Prime Minister was right. It's hell let loose. All the same, I'm aching to be at it. I never hated it as I hated it now. God helping us, this shall be Europe's last war."

They slowly returned towards the railway siding when in the distance they saw the train standing still.

"Look," said Pringle, "there's been a fire here. It looks as though they had a meal. Here's an empty wine bottle, and a crust of bread."

"Yes, and here's a pipe half full of tobacco. It might have been thrown down in a hurry, as though some chap were having a quiet smoke, and was suddenly called to duty. Look, it's an English-made pipe. It must have belonged to one of our men. I wonder where he is now. I'll take it as a souvenir."

As they drew near to the siding they heard the soldiers singing lustily:

"It's a long way to Tipperary."

Both of them were strangely silent as the train crawled slowly towards its destination. Their visit to one little corner of the stricken field had made them realise the meaning of war as they had never realised it before. Before the afternoon was over their eyes were still more widely opened by a passing train to the meaning of the work that lay before them.

It was going slowly, more slowly than their own, and Bob saw that it was full of wounded soldiers. How many there were he could not estimate, but it seemed to him that there must be hundreds. Some were laughing and talking cheerfully, while others lay with their eyes closed. More than one brave fellow held a wounded comrade's head on his knees.

It was only a minute, and the train had passed them. One trainload going to the front full of strong, stalwart men, hale and hearty, another returning full of the wounded. And this was war!

And why?

It was all because a war devil reigned in Germany, which the military caste worshipped as a kind of Deity.

Presently the train stopped. They had reached their destination. They were close to the front.

"Listen," said some one, and all the men were strangely silent.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

It was the great iron-mouthed messengers of death which sent molten lead into great masses of flesh and blood. It was the voice of the great guns—the contributions of science to the ghastly crime of war.



CHAPTER XV

Captain Trevanion did not go to the front as soon as he had expected. That was why, although few people in St. Ia knew anything about it, he again found himself at Penwennack. As chance would have it, he found Nancy at home. The Admiral had been called to London on Admiralty business, and so the girl, who had not yet undertaken the duties for which she had offered herself, was alone when the Captain arrived.

"Nancy," said Trevanion, who had been a friend of the family for years, "forgive me, but I could not help coming. The date of our starting has been put off for a day or two, so I found myself with a few hours to spare. You do not seem pleased to see me. Why?"

"I am sorry you should think so," was Nancy's reply. "But, you see, I did not expect you. Wouldn't it be—that is—isn't it a sort of anti-climax to come down here like this, after the great send-off St. Ia gave you?"

She laughed nervously as she spoke, and, although a faint flush tinged her cheeks, it was easy to see that she was far from well.

"What do I care about climaxes or anti-climaxes?" cried Trevanion. "I came because I couldn't help it. I knew you hadn't gone abroad, and I came just on the chance of seeing you. I caught the early train at Plymouth, and here I am. I must get back to-night."

"I'm afraid I'm no good at tennis or golf just now," said Nancy, "still I'll——"

"Hang tennis and golf!" interrupted Trevanion. "I didn't come all the way from Plymouth for that. I came because—because—but you know why? I say," he went on hurriedly, "you know Gossett of the Engineers, don't you? He goes to-morrow, and—and he was married yesterday. Both he and—and his wife felt they couldn't wait any longer. I suppose her people tried to dissuade her from getting married at such a time as this; but she wouldn't listen to them. 'I'm going to get married because Jack is going to the front,' was her reply to the croakers. 'I want him to feel that he has a wife waiting at home for him.' 'But suppose he should be killed?' said an old dame. 'Then I'd rather be his widow than his fiancee,' was her reply. Plucky, wasn't it?"

Nancy did not reply.

"Hosts of chaps have done the same thing," went on Trevanion hurriedly. "They had meant to have waited for months, but when the war came on they determined to marry right away."

"Are you thinking of getting married?" Nancy was angry with herself the moment she had spoken, but she was excited beyond measure, and the words escaped her almost unconsciously.

"Would to God I could!" cried Trevanion excitedly. "I'd give—heavens, what wouldn't I give for the chance! I say, Nancy, you know why I've come down, don't you? You—you didn't give me a chance to speak the other day, but now I feel as though I can't be silent any longer. You know how I love you, Nancy—you must know, you must have seen it for months—and—and—perhaps in a way it's cowardly of me to come to you like this, when I'm possibly going to my death. But I couldn't help myself, Nancy. If—if—you could only give me a little hope!"

Nancy did not reply—indeed, for the moment she was unable to speak. The last three weeks had tried her sorely. She had as she had thought decided to link her fate with that of Bob Nancarrow. She had, in spite of herself, confessed her love for him, and had promised to be his wife. Then suddenly the heavens had become black. The great war had broken out, and then when almost every young man she knew had offered himself for his country, the man she loved had proved a coward, and had sought to hide his cowardice behind pious platitudes. She blushed with shame as she thought of it. She hated herself for having loved a man who was unworthy to call himself an Englishman. And yet she had told him that she loved him. She had allowed him to hold her in his arms, while he had rained kisses on her lips. She, the daughter of Admiral Tresize, she, who bore a name which had ever been honoured among people who had fought for their country's safety and honour, had promised herself to a poltroon, a coward! The thought was maddening, and yet she had not been able to drive her love from her heart. In spite of his cowardice she still loved him. Even when she sought to insult him at the recruiting meeting she loved him. She constantly found herself trying to make excuses for him. But the fact remained. He had held back in the time of his country's peril, he had refused to listen when the King had sent out his call! Even when she had given him the white feather, his manhood had not been aroused. He had stood like a sulky school-boy, ashamed of his cowardice, but still a coward.

Yes, all was over between herself and Bob Nancarrow. How could it be otherwise? She had given him every chance to explain himself, and she had listened to his reasons for holding back. And such reasons! How could she, Nancy Tresize, who came from a race of fighters, accept such paltry excuses? Christianity to her meant the highest code of honour: it meant faithfulness to promise, it meant honour, it meant truth, it meant defending the weak—and in all this Bob had failed.

And yet she loved him. In her heart of hearts she did not believe he was a coward; as for meanness and dishonour, they were alien to his nature.

Of course she knew why Captain Trevanion had come, even before he had spoken. She had not been blind during the past year, and therefore, could not mistake the meaning of his attentions. She admired him too. He was just the kind of man she had always admired. He was the son of one of the oldest and most honoured families in the land; he was generous, chivalrous, brave, handsome. What more could she want? How the people cheered at the recruiting meeting! And what wonder? He had touched their hearts by his burning words, and he was just off to fight for his country.

Every selfish interest, every tradition of her family pleaded for him. She was fond of him too. She had always liked him as a friend; she had always admired him as a loyal gentleman and a soldier. Of course, he was not clever. He was no lover of books, and, compared with Bob, he was an ignoramus; but what did that matter? He was a brave man—a gentleman.

As for Bob, all their former relations were ended. He himself had closed and bolted the door between them. The choice had been between her and honour on the one hand, and selfish ease and cowardice on the other. And Bob had chosen to be a coward. What could she do, therefore, but drive him from her mind, and crush all affection for him? Was it not her duty to her father, her family, and to herself to accept Trevanion?

"You are not vexed with me, are you?" went on Trevanion, after he had waited a few seconds.

"No, not vexed."

"Then—then, can't you give me a word of hope? I—I don't even ask you to make a definite promise, although I'd give my eyes if you could; but if you could tell me that you liked no one better, and that I—I may speak again—if—if I come back, I could go away with a braver heart. I should feel all the time as if I were fighting for you. Just say something to cheer me, won't you, Nancy?"

"I'm afraid I can't," the girl's voice was hoarse as she spoke. Evidently his words had moved her greatly.

"Why? There is no one else, is there?"

"No, yes, that is——"

"Some one else! But, Nancy——"

"No, there is no one else."

"Then, Nancy, promise me something. Give me an inkling of hope."

She shook her head.

"But why?"

"Because—because it would not be fair to you."

"Anything would be fair to me if you'd give me some hope."

"Even if I could only offer you half my heart?"

"Give me half, and I'd quickly gain the rest," laughed Trevanion. "Why, why, I should be in heaven if you could say even so much."

"Do you care so much?" and there was a touch of wistfulness in her voice.

"So much! Why, you know. You have been the only thing I've cared for—for months. Why, you—-you are everything to me. I'm not a clever fellow, I know that—but—but—I can fight, Nancy. And it's all for you."

Nancy stood still a few seconds, evidently fighting with herself. She knew she could not in honour promise even what Trevanion had asked for without telling him the truth. And this was terribly difficult. She felt that he had a right to know, and yet it was like sacrilege to tell him.

"You see," went on the Captain, "your father——!"

"Stop!" cried the girl; "before you say any more, I must tell you something. It's very hard, but I must. I said there was no one else, but that's not—true."

"Not true! Then, then——"

"There was some one else, although it's—all over."

"But, but who? No, forgive me for asking. I've no right to ask. Besides, you say—that—that it's a thing of the past."

"You have a right to ask if—if——"

"If what? Tell me who—if you think it fair of me to ask."

"Can't you guess?"

"There can be no one, except—I say, Nancy, you can't mean Nancarrow?"

She nodded her head.

"But, Nancy—that—that——"

"Don't, please. I loved him—at least I thought I did, and—and we were engaged. If—if—that is, but for the war, he would have spoken to father by this time, and—and everything would have been made known. When—he played the coward, I found out my mistake, and I told him so."

"Great heavens, yes! It was, of course, only a foolish fancy. A girl like you could never seriously care for that class of man."

"I am ashamed of myself when I think of him," and Nancy's voice was hoarse as she spoke. "In a way I feel contaminated. If there is anything under heaven that I despise, it's a coward. I want to forget that I—I ever thought of him. I want to drive him from my mind."

"And that is what keeps you from promising me anything. But surely you do not care for him now. Why—why, you couldn't! The fellow who could show the white feather at such a time as this, and then try and cover up his cowardice by all that religious humbug, is not of your class, Nancy. He's a rank outsider. I'm sorry I was ever friends with him. Your father told me he was mad with himself for ever allowing him inside the house."

"That's why I'm so ashamed of——"

"We'll drive him from our minds, Nancy. There, he's done with. He's not worthy of a thought. You owe it to yourself, to your name, your country, to banish it from your mind."

For the moment Nancy was angry with Trevanion. She wanted to defend Bob. She wanted to tell him that Bob was braver than he. But she could not. She had spoken truly when she said that she was ashamed of herself for having allowed herself to think of him.

"Give me even the shadow of a promise," went on Trevanion, "and all thought of him will be for ever gone."

"No," said Nancy, "I can promise nothing—now."

"But will you try—to—to care for me?"

"Yes," said the girl, "I'll promise that, if—if it will be of any comfort to you."

"I don't fear now," cried Trevanion. "Everything will be right. What you have been telling me is nothing—just a passing fancy which will be—nothing. Give me a kiss, Nancy, and——"

"No," said the girl, and she shrank back almost instinctively, "not that; but the other—yes, I'll promise to try."

"I'm the happiest man in England with only that," laughed Trevanion; "what shall I be when—when the war is over, and I come back to claim my own. I shall find you waiting for me, shan't I?"

"I—I don't know. I may not come back. It what the papers say is true, even the nurses are not safe."

"But have you really settled to go abroad as a nurse?"

"I thought you understood that when you were here last. I go to London the day after to-morrow, and in a week from now I expect to be in one of the French hospitals."

"I had hoped you'd given up that," said the Captain moodily.

"Why should you hope that? If it's your duty to go, it is mine. There are plenty of nurses for the English hospitals, but there are fewer volunteers for Belgium and France. I suppose the most hopeful cases are sent home to England. Those who are dangerously wounded remain in France or Belgium. That's where I want to be."

Trevanion looked at her with admiring eyes. Even while he hoped she would remain in England, he admired her determination to go and nurse the worst cases.

"What a wife she'll be!" he reflected. "Proud as Lucifer and honourable to the finger tips. Yes, I've got her. She'll regard even this shadow of a promise as binding on her. As for Nancarrow, he's done with for ever. Thank heaven for that! By Jove, I'm a lucky beggar!"

"Perhaps we may meet in France, Nancy," he said aloud; "I may be wounded, and——"

"Don't!" she said, with a shudder.

"Heavens, she loves me!" thought the Captain. "She can't bear the idea of my being wounded."

"Anyhow, the man who has you as a nurse may thank his lucky stars," he said aloud, "and of this you may be sure, if there's any chance of our meeting, I shall make the most of it. Trust me for that."

That same day Trevanion made his way back to Plymouth with a glad heart. He regarded his engagement with Nancy as good as settled, for he knew that she regarded even the suggestion of a promise as sacred. Besides, he had everything in his favour. He knew that the old Admiral favoured his suit, and would do his best to remove any doubts which might exist in Nancy's mind. As for Bob Nancarrow, he was a negligible quantity. Nancy had driven him out of the house with scorn and anger in her heart. How could it be otherwise? The fellow was an outsider, a poltroon, a coward. He knew how Nancy despised such; knew that even if she loved him, she would regard it as a sacred duty to crush a love which to her would be a disgrace to the name she bore.

Thus it came about that all three found themselves on French soil. The Captain went at the head of a Cornish regiment, brave and fearless, determined to do his duty as a soldier should. The ethics of the war had never cost him a moment's thought. England was at war, and that was enough for him. He was needed in the firing-line, and he, without a question or a reason, save that he was a soldier, must be there.

Nancy, on the other hand, went because she wanted to nurse—to save. It was a woman's work—the noblest any woman could do. She was not allowed to fight herself, although she would gladly have done so; but even although she could not fight, she would be near the line of battle. She would do all in her power for the brave fellows who had fallen in fighting their country's battles.

As for Bob, he was there because he had listened to what he was sure was the Call of God. He hated war, he hated the soldiers' calling, and, because he hated it, he was there. Not one in the whole of His Majesty's Army was more eager to be in the thick of the fight than he, because he wanted to take his part in killing the war devil which had turned a great part of Europe into a hell.



CHAPTER XVI

September was nearly at an end when Bob, alighting at a little station, heard the booming of guns. The country-side seemed quiet and peaceful but for this. There were evidences that fighting had been going on, but at present no fighting was to be seen. The sky was a great dome of blue, the air was pure and sweet. It was as though great Mother Nature were defying the War God to disturb her tranquillity. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred; bird and beast and flower were composing themselves for their nightly sleep.

And yet to Bob the atmosphere was tense with excitement. The very calm of the evening was unnatural. He felt as though lightnings should be flashing, the wind roaring.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

The great War God was roaring, and from his mouth death came. With every boom of the guns men were falling, souls were going home to God.

Bob felt a shiver to the centre of his being. It seemed to him as though the foundations of his life were shaken. He had never experienced such a feeling before. He did not think it was fear; rather it was awesomeness. For a moment he regarded life, his own life, from a new standpoint. He was only a pawn on a chess-board, one of a million of human beings, none of whom had any personality, any will. Life and death were nothing. Each had to fill his place, and to do what was allotted to him, regardless of consequences.

He found himself thinking of lines from "The Charge of the Light Brigade":

"Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die, Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred."

Suddenly he found himself alert. The men were forming into marching order, and almost unconsciously he was performing the duties allotted to him.

Bob saw that a large mass of men had gathered. Other trains had arrived before the one by which he had come, and each had brought its quota from England.

He realised, as he had never realised before, how efficiently, quietly, and at the same time wonderfully, the forces at home were working. He, like others, had read several weeks before, that something like a hundred thousand men had landed on French soil without a casualty, without a mishap. It had come to him, as it had come to us all, as a kind of surprise, that such a mass of humanity, with horses, accoutrements, and provisions, could have been sent to France with so little noise, and without the nation's knowing anything about it. Yet so it was. While we were wondering, the work was done.

But that was not all. While the country was asleep, or while it was pursuing its usual avocations, tens of thousands of men were leaving our shores, taking the places of those who had fallen or adding to the force already there, while tens of thousands more were preparing to leave. The heart of the Empire was moved, and her sons were offering themselves, many thousands every day, to fight her battles.

"How many men have we at the front?" we often asked.

No one knew, although we hazarded many guesses. But we knew that we were doing what we could, that a great river of humanity was flowing into France, and that hundreds of thousands of our bravest hearts were beating on foreign soil, and that no matter how many men fell wounded or dead, ten times their number could and would be supplied.

Bob's heart thrilled as he thought of it. He was only an obscure youth, who had first fought his battle on the solitary battlefield of his own soul, and then, as a consequence, could no longer keep himself from throwing himself into this great light against tyranny and militarism.

They were marching towards the firing-line! The boom of the guns sounded more and more near. Sometimes above the steady tramp, tramp of the soldiers they thought they heard the ghastly whistle of the shells as they went on their mission of death.

Bob looked on the faces of the men as they marched. Yes, it was easy to see by the steely glitter of their eyes, the tightly compressed lips, that every nerve was in tension, that they knew they were entering the danger zone. Many were praying who had not prayed for years, while others, careless of life or death, marched forward, with a laugh on their lips.

It is not for me to describe what took place during the next few days. Indeed, I could not if I would. First, the news which has reached me concerning them is scanty—so scanty that even if I recorded every word of it, it would add but little interest to the narrative I am writing. More than that, I am utterly ignorant of the art of war, and if I tried to describe in anything like detail the events which have been related to me, I should, doubtless, fall into many mistakes, and convey altogether wrong impressions. Besides, I am not so much writing the story of the war, as the story of Robert Nancarrow, and of what has befallen him these last few weeks.

For the first fortnight after Bob joined the British forces at the front, he was disappointed at not being placed in the fighting-line. Moreover, his duties seemed to him of an unimportant nature, such as could have been performed by the most unintelligent. He saw others take the places which he longed to occupy, while he had to attend to merely mechanical duties.

Still he did not complain. The work he was doing had to be done, and since some one must do it, why not he as well as another? The great fact which cheered him was that little by little the Allies were slowly gaining ground in this "Battle of the Rivers," even although he saw but little of it. Neither, for that matter, did he know very much of the progress which was being made generally. He was so situated that he heard very little of what was being done. People in England were far better informed of what was taking place than the soldiers, except in some little corner of the great battlefield where they were individually engaged.

He saw enough, however, to realise the horror all around him, and to become inured to the life he was living.

"Oh, to be in the thick of it!" he cried again and again, as day after day passed, and he was continually delegated to what seemed to him unimportant duties. He little realised that his time was coming, and that he was to be baptized with a baptism of fire more terrible than befell many, even in that time of horrible carnage.

It was on a Sunday morning in October, in this year of our Lord, 1914, that the events which I have now to describe, began. In England I remember it was like a summer day, while in France it was even warmer, and more cloudless. The night had been comparatively still, and the enemies' guns had scarcely been heard since sunset.

The sentries had reported all well, and when the morning came, it seemed to be generally believed that it would be a quiet day. On the distant hills, several miles away, the German hordes were entrenched and alert. The day previous the Allies had been less harried, and tens of thousands who had been well-nigh worn out by continuous fighting had gained some measure of respite.

Bob awoke just before dawn. All along the lines were watchful sentinels; but many thousands, assured by the reports of those on outpost duty that all was well, were asleep. Presently the reveille sounded, and then, what had seemed an uninhabited tract of country, was peopled by a great armed host. Men in khaki were everywhere. On every hand were preparations for breakfast; laughter and shouts were heard on every hand. As the light increased, Bob saw thousands upon thousands of men. They literally swarmed everywhere.

"Colonel Sapsworth wants you, sir."

Bob turned and saw a soldier saluting him as delivered his message.

"I wonder what that means," thought Bob, as he found his way towards the spot where the Colonel was. A minute later his heart was beating high with joy and excitement. He was informed that he was appointed to a post of responsibility, which might be of importance. A number of men were to be placed under his command, and great events might be taking place in a few hours.

"I shall know definitely soon," Colonel Sapsworth said, when he had given him some general directions. "Meanwhile you know what to do."

He had scarcely spoken, when a man came to the a tent and asked for admission; a second later he had entered, bearing a despatch.

Colonel Sapsworth read it hastily.

"By God!" he muttered under his breath; "but I expected it!"

It was a despatch sent from the General of the Division telling him that an attack on his forces would possibly be made that day—that men in the Flying Corps had been able to see the general movements of the enemy, and had brought the news that before long great masses of men would be upon them.

A few minutes later everything was in order. The officers had each received his instructions, and were on the qui vive.

It was only half an hour past daylight, and the dewdrops were still glistening on the grass and shining on the tree-tops. It seemed as if some occult influences were at work, and that the men were conscious of the fact that the atmosphere was laden with tragedy, for instead of laughter and merry jest, a strange silence prevailed.

Only one sound broke the great stillness which had fallen on the camp. It was the sound of a body of men singing:

"O God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home."

Bob had heard both hymn and tune a hundred times in St. Ia. He thought, too, from the intonation of the men's voices, that they were Cornish lads who sang. For the moment he forgot where he was, and was oblivious to the fact that he was in the midst of a great armed host, and that tens of thousands of men were all around him, each armed with implements of death. He was in Cornwall again, and he was breathing the Sabbath morning air. He heard the church bells ringing in the distance, while the hymn he heard came from some humble Meeting House where simple people met together for prayer and praise.

"A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening——"

"Some religious swabs," laughed one.

"Boom! boom! Crack, crack, boom!"

The hymn was broken off in the middle. The sound of guns was nearer than Bob had ever heard it before. The enemy had evidently decided upon a surprise attack.

A horrible screech rent the air, and, looking up, Bob saw an explosion. It was as though a bouquet of fire were falling on them; and then he heard noises such as he had never heard before. It was the groans of the wounded; the cries of men pierced by arrows of fire; the moaning of brave fellows torn and mutilated for life.

The British guns answered the fire of the enemy, while all around quick, decisive commands were given.

For some hours after this Bob had only a vague remembrance of what took place. He knew that the position they now occupied had been captured from the enemy, who had receded only with the idea of endeavouring to take it again. Evidently they had kept the secret of their plans well, for from all the reports given on the previous night there had been no likelihood of an early attack. But for the Flying Corps they would have been utterly surprised, and even as it was their preparations had to be hurriedly made.

"Boom! boom!" bellowed forth the big guns.

"Crack! crack!" said the voices of a thousand rifles.

Bob's remembrance was that he was calmly fulfilling the orders that had been given to him, and that he was strangely oblivious of danger.

Event after event seemed to follow each other, like so many pictures in a cinema performance.

He remembered his men in their trenches coolly firing, while shot and shell fell thick around them.

Later, they moved forward, and took cover under some raised ground, where they lay silently and warily watching.

He was watching too. In his eagerness he had risen to his feet, and thus exposed himself to the sight of the enemy. The ground was torn up at his feet, and he felt something burning hot graze his arm, as if some one had touched him with a burning knife.

But he was unhurt! He knew that a bullet had only touched his arm. An inch to the right, and it would have missed him altogether; two inches to the left, and his arm would have been shattered; a foot to the left, and he would, in all probability, have been killed.

He saw a body of men in German uniform moving nearer to them. It was a great mass of soldiers, who came on in great blocks of sixty or eighty, four deep. The British waited silently, awaiting the word of command. Eagerly they longed for the word, "Fire!"

At last it came, and almost as if by magic a thousand rifles went off at the same moment, leaving great gaps in the German ranks which had a few seconds before been filled with a living, breathing humanity.

Again the crack of rifles, and again gaps were made. But still the enemy came forward. Bob even thought he heard the cry of "Vorwaerts! Vorwaerts!"

Now and then above the din he heard what seemed like the sound of singing. It sounded like the tune he had heard early in the morning.

Meanwhile the cannonade continued to rage. The heavens were full of bursting shells, even the very skies seemed like hell.

Hour after hour the fusillade continued, and presently there was a halt in the enemies' progress. They were falling back.

"Now at them! Give 'em ——"

There was a wild rush forward. How long it continued Bob could not tell. Behind them the big English guns were booming, and he knew that our artillery was pounding at the German trenches a long distance away.

Forward! forward!

Shot and shell were dropping thickly around, while on the right and left men were falling. In the distance lay the German trenches. Could they be reached? Yes, a few minutes later our men were in them. For a time at all events Bob's company was in comparative safety.

Panting aloud the hardy lads threw themselves into position. They had gained their immediate object, but could they hold it?

Suddenly amid the din a musical note rang out; it pierced the very heavens, it was more penetrating than the boom of the big guns, the screech of shells, or the crack of rifles.

From the distant heather, perhaps half a mile away, men with clear sight could see great masses of humanity in grey rise, seemingly out of the earth, and Bob heard the distant sound of fifes and drums.

"They are going to charge us!"

Who said this no one knew, but it did not matter. All knew it was true. Strong stalwart men they were who rushed madly forward. They were commanded to do so, and they must not disobey. Every step meant death to many, but Germany was careless about her losses. They must win the victory, they must get back the position they had lost, no matter what it might cost.

"We are lost!" thought Bob: "what are we against so many?"

But even before the thought had passed his mind, out from their cover came the British—sections, companies, battalions.

Then, almost before Bob realised what was taking place, a great hand-to-hand carnage began. Shrieks, groans, cries filled the heavens. From that time Bob ceased to be the quiet student who had aspirations after a serene scholastic life. He was an Englishman doing battle with a huge fighting machine. He was one of the many who determined to cut out the great cancer of Europe. England and all she stood for was at stake. Honour, faithfulness to promise, liberty, religion, all must be maintained!

He found himself facing a huge German. The German hesitated a second, and rushed on him. It was that moment's hesitation to which Bob owed his life. With all the strength of his right arm he parried the fearful lunge of the German, who rushed on him with fixed bayonet. A second later the man fell.

Bob shuddered as he saw him fall. What had he against the man he had killed? Nothing. Even at that moment he would gladly have helped him had he been able. Possibly, probably he had a wife or sweetheart somewhere, probably too he was a quiet, inoffensive fellow who had no desire to harm any one. In spite of the war fever which raged, the English had no personal animus against the Germans. But then they were not fighting against Germans, they were fighting against the War God which dominated Germany, they were fighting a system which threatened the liberty, the peace, the religion of Europe—the world.

All this killing was hellish, but the cancer had to be cut out. If it were allowed to remain it would poison the life of the world.

"At 'em! at 'em!"

Blood and carnage everywhere; earth made hell at the bidding of a bully, a madman who declared himself to be the vicegerent of God. Yes, the horrors of war could not be described in human language, but it had to be waged in order to destroy the hellish doctrine that might was right, the hideous creed of "blood and iron."



CHAPTER XVII

The English army had, for the time being, occupied the trenches from which they had driven the Germans, and for a moment they were safe. The enemy was moving away towards a distant hill, but a huge rearguard was on the alert.

The commanding officer knew that although a slight advantage had been gained, pursuit would be madness, so, taking advantage of the enemies' trenches, they decided to await further events.

To Bob, the whole day seemed like a dream. His encounter with the German private was like the memory of some event which had taken place long, long ago. All the same, it was a wonder to him that he was alive and unwounded.

All around him lay men in various positions; some never to rise again; some, even if they recovered, to be mutilated for life. Only now and then did the rearguard of the enemy's army reveal its whereabouts, but all knew that thousands of men were waiting for any advantage which might be given to them.

The day was fast dying, and whatever little wind there had been had nearly sunk to rest.

"Hello, Nancarrow! you here?"

"Pickford! Great heavens, man, whoever thought of seeing you!"

It was an old school-fellow who spoke to Bob. They had been four years together at Clifton, and Pickford had been on the military side of the school.

When Bob had gone up to Oxford, Pickford had left for Sandhurst. They had last seen each other on what they called their breaking-up row at the school. Both of them had been as wild as March hares, and they with a hundred others had yelled like mad at the thought of their school days being over.

Now they had met on French soil, amidst carnage and the welter of blood, at the close of a day which would ever live in Bob's memory.

"I heard you had refused to enlist, Nancarrow."

"Who told you?"

"Trevanion: he said you had shown the white feather over the whole business, and pretended to excuse yourself by religious scruples."

Bob was silent for a moment; he scarcely knew how to reply.

"I told Trevanion he was altogether mistaken in you," went on Pickford; "but he gave such details of your refusal, and described in such graphic language what others had said about you, that it seemed impossible for him to be mistaken. Some girl gave you a white feather, didn't she, at the Public Hall in St. Ia?"

"Did Trevanion tell you that?"—and there was anger in Bob's voice.

"I thought it was scarcely a sportsmanlike thing to do," said Pickford, noticing the look on Bob's face; "I told him so, too. We were talking about you only last night."

"Is Trevanion here, then?"

"Yes: didn't you know? He has been in the thick of it the whole day. As you know, he is Captain of the Royal West—a fine lot of men he has, too."

"And he thinks I am still in Cornwall?" asked Bob.

"I suppose so. You see it was this way: we were talking about certain swabs of whom we were ashamed, and he mentioned you."

"Don't tell him I am here," said Bob quietly.

"Why?"

"Never mind—don't; I daresay he will find out soon enough."

"Anyhow," said Pickford, "he is awfully popular with himself just now; I hear he is certain to be a Major in a few days, and will be Colonel in no time. You know he is engaged?"

"Engaged? To whom?"

"You know her—old Tresize's daughter; Nancy, I think her name is. Of course you know her: Penwennack, her father's place, is close by St. Ia."

"And—and is he engaged to her?"

"Yes," replied Pickford.

"Did he tell you so himself?"

"No, not in so many words; but he spoke of her to one of the other men as his fiancee."

Bob's heart sank like lead; the worst he had feared had come to pass. This, then, was his reward for his fidelity to his conscience. He could not understand it. He knew Nancy was angry with him—angry at what she had called his cowardice, at his refusal to obey the call of his country. But he was sure she loved him: had she not told him so?—and now, to become engaged within only a few weeks, to the man she had spoken of, almost with scorn, was simply unbelievable.

For the moment he had become heedless of his surroundings; the fact that thousands of soldiers were crouching in the trenches waiting for any possible advance of the enemy, the groans of men who were wounded and perhaps dying, did not exist to him.

At that moment the issue of battles was less to him than the action of the woman he loved.

"I used to imagine you were gone on her," went on Pickford; "I suppose it was only a boy-and-girl affair."

Bob did not reply; he could not discuss the tragedy of his life with his old school-fellow.

"Where is Trevanion now?" he asked presently.

"He must be close by," was the reply. "I saw him less than an hour ago, when the Germans were beginning to give way. Of course I have always known him to be a fine soldier, but I never knew he had so much of the fighting devil in him. Man, you should have seen his eyes burn red—he was just like a wild savage. I think he forgot his duties as an officer and gave himself up to the lust of fighting."

Pickford had scarcely uttered the words when a man came up to him. "I say, Trevanion's missing," he said.

"Trevanion missing? I was telling Nancarrow here that I saw him less than an hour ago."

"Yes, so did I; but we have had later reports. Sergeant Beel says he saw him fall; I think he was wounded by a bullet. Beel was at that time so hard pressed that he could do nothing for him."

In spite of himself a feeling of joy shot into Bob's heart. If Trevanion were wounded, perhaps he—then . . . but he would not allow himself to complete the thought which had been born in his mind.

Bob found himself amidst a group of officers. "It is impossible to do anything for him," he heard one say: "I know where he is, but no man's life would be worth a pin's purchase who tried to get at him. The Germans are not more than 500 yards away, and whoever shows himself to them is a dead man. Only a few minutes ago some men were trying to get from one trench to another, and they were just mowed down like grass."

"But Trevanion may not be killed," urged another, "and if he is badly wounded it might mean death to him if nothing is done for him. Besides, daylight will be gone in less than an hour, and if he is not got at at once, it will be impossible to find him in the dark."

"And the man who tries to get at him in the light," said another, "will find himself full of bullets."

Bob listened eagerly to every word that was said, and again he could not help rejoicing at what seemed Trevanion's fate. The fact that he had discussed his, Bob's, cowardice with fellows with whom he had been at school had roused his anger against him; and when he was told that Trevanion was engaged to Nancy Tresize, a feeling of mad hatred mastered him.

"By God," said one, "but we cannot leave him out there without trying to get at him! Isn't there one of us who will make the attempt?"

"It would be a madman's act," cried another. "You know they are waiting for us, and, if any one dares to go out in the open, he is a dead man."

"You say you know where he is now?" said Bob.

"I know where Sergeant Beel said he saw him," was the reply.

"I should like to speak to Beel," and Bob's voice was very quiet as he spoke.

Instantly an order was given, and a few minutes later Sergeant Beel was saluting him.

"You say you saw Captain Trevanion fall?" said Bob.

"Yes, sir."

"Can you point out the spot?"

"Yes, sir."

A few minutes later Bob was in possession of all the information which the Sergeant could give.

"Heavens, you are not going, Nancarrow?"

"I'm going to have a try," was Bob's reply.

In the few seconds which it took Sergeant Beel to tell his story, Bob had been fighting the greatest battle of his life. It seemed to him as though thousands of devils were pleading with him to let his rival die, and all the time every particle of manhood he possessed was telling him where his duty lay.

If Nancy Tresize had promised Trevanion to be his wife, she must love him, and if she loved him, the death of her lover would be like death to her. Anyhow, it was for him to make the attempt.

He crept from his place of safety, and threw himself flat on the ground, while the others, with whispered exclamations of surprise, watched him.

Keeping his body as close as he could to the ground, he crawled forward. When he had been a boy, he, like thousands of other English boys, had played at fighting Indians, and the old trick of crawling close to the ground served him well now; but it was painfully slow, and every yard he took he expected to hear the whistle of bullets—to feel the baptism of fire.

When he had crawled perhaps one hundred yards, a rifle shot rang out, and he heard a bullet cut its way through the leaves of the trees in the near distance. Was it aimed at him? He didn't know, but he did know that the nearer he went to the enemies' lines, the greater chance they would have of seeing him.

"Why should I go any further?" he asked himself. "It is a madman's trick I am playing. No one but an idiot would take such a risk; besides, it is useless—I can never reach him. Even if I get to the spot Beel described, I may not find him, and then I shall have simply thrown away my life for nothing." Then for the first time that day he really felt what fear meant.

Since early morning he had been in the midst of the fray, now directing his soldiers, now fighting hand-to-hand battles, but never once had he felt fear; even when his comrades on his right hand and on his left had fallen, he had not felt even a tremor. His nerves had been wrought up to such a pitch that fear was almost impossible; rather he had known a kind of mad joy in fighting. When in answer to the German charge the English soldiers had rushed forward, bayonets fixed, to meet them, he knew he had become almost a savage in his lust for blood. More than once he had laughed aloud as slowly, amidst cries of pain, savage yells of joy, and feverish passion, they had fought their way, inch by inch, and driven the Germans back; but now he felt fear.

It was one thing to rush forward amidst the clash of arms and the cheers of his comrades; it was another to crawl along like an Indian savage, in the silence of the dying day. And for what purpose? To save a man who, half an hour before, he had wished dead.

But he knew he could not go back. Something, he could not explain what, urged him forward. How could he go back with his purpose unfulfilled? What would the others say? In spite of the fact that he had undertaken what every man of them had said was a madman's act, they would in their heart of hearts scorn him for having played the coward.

Every muscle in his body ached; his hands were torn and bleeding; it seemed to him as if there were hammers striking his temples; sparks of fire were in his eyes,—still he struggled forward.

He lifted his head and looked around. Yes, he was near the spot which Sergeant Beel had described. Daylight was now falling, and half an hour later darkness would be upon them. If his mission were not accomplished whilst the light lasted, the Captain would have to lie until the morning, and if he were wounded, he might during those hours die from loss of blood.

Again there was a crack of rifles, and he heard the whistle of bullets as they passed by him; one of these was not more than a yard away. What the Germans meant, he did not know, neither could he tell whether he had been seen, but he was sure that his life was not worth a pin's purchase.

He had left his sword behind—that was of no use to him now and would be only an encumbrance—but he had his revolver ready to hand.

Feverishly he looked around him, but nowhere could he see the man he sought. Still, he had done his duty; he could go back to Pickford and the other fellows and tell them he had done his best and had failed.

But he stayed where he was.

He realised that he was faint and hungry. Since, early that Sunday morning he had scarcely partaken of food; all day long there had been mad fighting and deadly carnage, and in his excitement he had forgotten hunger; now he thought he was going to faint. Then suddenly every nerve became tense again. He saw not more than a dozen yards away a man in German uniform; like lightning his hand flew to his revolver, and he held himself in readiness. Scarcely had he done so, when he heard a groan. The German also evidently heard it, for he quickly made his way towards the spot from which the sound came.

A moment later Bob heard the German give a low laugh as if he were pleased, but the laugh died in its birth; before it was finished, a bullet from Bob's revolver had pierced his brain. Forgetful of danger, he rushed forward, and saw that he had not been a moment too soon. The German was about to drive his sword into the body of a prostrate man.

"It is he!" cried Bob, in a hoarse whisper; he had found the man he had come to seek. There, partly hidden by a small bush, lay Captain Trevanion, and on his face was a pallor like the pallor of death.

"He is alive," reflected Bob; "I heard him groan just now."

He put his ear close to Trevanion's heart and listened. Yes, he was faintly breathing, but his clothes were saturated with blood.

With trembling hands Bob undid the other's uniform, and was not long in finding a wound from which oozed his life's blood. He called to mind all the medical knowledge he had, and set to work to stop the bleeding; in a few minutes had partially succeeded.

But how to get him back to the English lines! That was the question. He did not think Trevanion was in any immediate danger now. All he could do was to wait until the daylight was gone, and then carry the wounded man to a place of safety. But he dared not wait. The wound began bleeding again. Trevanion was a heavy man, almost as heavy as Bob himself, and in carrying him he knew that he must expose himself to the German fire; but that risk must be taken.

He thought he might carry him two or three hundred yards before being shot, and by that time he would be near enough to the English lines to enable those who were watching, to reach them.

Bob could never call clearly to mind any details of the next few minutes. He knew that he was stumbling along in the twilight, bearing a heavy burden—knew, too, that bullets whizzed by him; but, heedless of everything, he plodded forward. He had a vague idea, too, that he must be seen; but all thought of danger had gone.

If he were killed, he was killed, and that was all.

Then suddenly cheers reached him. It seemed to him as though a thousand arms were around him, and wild excited cries filled the air. After that he knew no more.

When he came to himself again, he was lying in a tent, and bending over him was a face he had never seen before.

"There, you'll do now; you're all right."

"Who are you?" asked Bob.

"I'm Doctor Grey; but that doesn't matter. You haven't a wound or a scratch, my dear chap; you just fainted—that was all. How the devil you got through, I don't know; but there it is, you're as right as rain."

"Have I been long here?"

"Not more than five minutes. Heavens, man, it was the maddest thing I ever heard of! Trevanion is in a bad way; whether he'll pull through or not, I don't know; but if he does, he'll owe his life to you. He was slowly bleeding to death, and of course your getting him here didn't help him. Still, he's in good hands."

"He's alive, then?"

"Oh, yes, he's alive, and I think he'll live; still, he'll have a bad time. Oh, yes, you can get up, if you want; you're all right. When did you have food last?"

"I don't think I remember," said Bob. "It must have been about midday, I think."

"I thought so. Now drink this. Do you mind seeing the fellows? That's right; here they come. Now, Pringle—oh, yes, and Colonel Sapsworth too—no wonder you are proud of your subaltern; there are men who've got the Victoria Cross for less."

Colonel Sapsworth caught Bob's hand and wrung it without a word.

Bob saw his lips tremble beneath his grey moustache, saw too that his eyes were filled with tears; but Colonel Sapsworth was a man who didn't talk much. "You're a plucky young devil," he said, "but I thought you had it in you. There, there, do you feel better now? By Jove, you're the talk of the whole division! Yes, Trevanion will do all right—at least, I hope so," and then the Colonel rubbed his eyes.

"That is enough," said Dr. Grey. "I'm chief in command here; he wants a few hours' rest, and then he'll be as right as ever. Meanwhile, let him alone; the young beggar has had a hard day."



CHAPTER XVIII

After the incidents I have just recorded, Bob had no longer reason to complain that he was kept out of the firing-line. Event after event followed quickly in what is now generally spoken of as "The Battle of the Rivers."

Position after position was taken by the English, only to be lost again; now the Germans were driven back, and again, although on the whole progress was made, the English were driven back, but all the time carnage and bloodshed continued.

Every day and all through the days the great guns poured forth red-hot death. Every day the welter of blood went on.

We in England read in our newspapers that a great flanking movement was taking place which was eventually either to wipe out or capture General von Kluck's Army, and for this, day after day, we waited in vain.

We were told that the Germans were surrounded by a ring of steel, from which, except a miracle took place, they could not escape; but somehow there was an opening in the ring of steel, and nothing decisive took place. In the minds of many, conviction grew that it might be years before the war, brought about by the Germans, would come to an end.

The soldiers at the front knew little of this. I, who have received letters from more than one of them, learned that they, who were in the very thick of the fighting, knew practically nothing of the trend of the war. The interest of each regiment was largely confined to the little space it occupied.

All the soldiers knew was that they were advancing slowly, and that instead of the German army's reaching Paris, it was steadily going backward.

Tragedy ceased to be tragedy, because it became so commonplace; death was an everyday event, and men grew almost careless of it. "It may be my turn to-day," they said one to another, with a grim laugh; and some of them, even when they were wounded, jested about their sufferings.

This, however, Bob could not help noticing; he was more and more trusted by his Colonel, and, although he was in a subordinate position, work of importance was often entrusted to him. Especially was this the case after an incident, which, in one form or another, was repeated all along the battle-line.

One morning a young officer came to him saying that he had been requested to obtain information which Bob had gathered the day before, and concerning which a new line of action had to be taken.

This young officer was an utter stranger to Bob, but, seeing he possessed the necessary papers, he spoke to him freely.

"We had a great day yesterday," he said.

"We shall have a greater to-morrow," was Bob's reply.

A few minutes later the two were eagerly discussing what would probably take place, and Bob found himself giving away information of great importance.

"I wish I could talk German," said the young officer presently. "I had heaps of chances whilst I was at school, but, like a fool, I neglected them."

"Why, what would you do?" asked Bob.

"I would find my way to the enemies' camp," was the reply; "and I would learn what they are up to; it would be a great advantage to us. It is said that our lines are filled with German spies."

"I suppose spies are necessary," was Bob's reply; "but, somehow, spying does not fall in with our ideas; still, I suppose we have to use them."

"Those Germans are such mean devils," was Captain Rivers' retort; "there's no dirty work they aren't prepared to do; still, if I only knew German, I would be a match for 'em. I suppose you do not happen to know German?"

Bob did not reply, but he looked at the other keenly, noticing his fair, smooth, ruddy face and altogether innocent appearance. Then a suspicion was born in his mind. "Wait a minute, will you?" he said, and then, calling a soldier, told him to fetch Lieutenant Proctor, as he wished to speak to him.

"What's up, Nancarrow?" said Proctor, when he came.

"I want to know how poor Trevanion is getting on have you heard anything?"

"He has been removed to a hospital at C——," replied Proctor; "as you know, he was not well enough to be sent back to England. I'm afraid it will be a long time before he is well again."

"Let's see, who is taking his place?"

"Captain Tremaine. Didn't you know? Promotions are rapid in these days."

"Oh, he has got his captaincy, has he? By the way, there is something else I want to ask you," and Bob, knowing that Proctor had spent some time in Germany, spoke to him in German.

While Proctor was replying, he gave a quick glance at Rivers, and then moved towards him. It was no time for hesitation or parley.

"Rivers," said Bob—"if that is your name—you're a liar. You know German, and, if I'm not mistaken, you're a German spy. At him, Proctor." The last words came out like a shot from a pistol, and he saw Rivers draw a revolver from his pocket as if he intended to shoot him. A few seconds later he was fast bound, and Bob and Proctor escorted Rivers towards General Fortescue's tent.

"General," said Bob, "this man tells me he was sent to me from you; is that true?"

"Heavens, no! I never saw the fellow before, but I am inclined to think we have put our hands upon a spy," he said, when Bob had recorded what had taken place.

Ten minutes later the guilt of the soi-disant Rivers was proved up to the hilt.

Notes were found on his person proving not only the fact that he had come from the German lines, but that he had for some time been gathering information in the British lines, with the evident intention of conveying it to the enemy.

This information, moreover, was of such vital import, and it had been kept with such secrecy, that it seemed miraculous that he could have obtained it; still, obtained it he had, and a dozen proofs of his treachery were found upon him. To all questions, however, he maintained a rigid silence; evidently he was faithful to his own country.

"And did the blackguard tell you he did not know German?" asked the General.

"That's what aroused my suspicions, sir," replied Bob. "He was like a character in Hamlet—he protested too much; this made me send for Proctor, to whom I could speak German in a natural sort of way. As I watched his face, I saw that he understood every word that was being said, and I took steps accordingly."

"A jolly sensible thing to do," was the General's response. "Still, we have spotted him, and, what is more, the biter's bitten; not only will he fail to carry back the information he has gained, to the enemy, but his papers reveal their intentions, and so you have rendered us a great service."

A little later on, the man who had called himself Rivers, but whose real name, according to his papers, was Werter, was shot.

"That Nancarrow is a useful man," said Colonel Sapsworth to the General, not long after, when they were discussing the situation.

"He certainly seems to have behaved very well," was the General's response.

"I have had my eye upon him for weeks," said the Colonel. "From the first time I saw him, I felt he had the makings of a good soldier, and I gave special instructions about him. Of course, I had to be careful, and I saw to it that he was tested in various ways; but he's as plucky as they make 'em. Of course, it was a mad thing to do to creep out into the open, as he did, and bring back Trevanion, but it was a fine thing all the same."

"He seems quite intelligent too," said the General.

"Yes, the way he nabbed that German was just fine; he had very little data upon which to go, and it seems that this man Werter has been on the loose for weeks. Nancarrow, however, spotted him, and now he will not do any more spying. If Nancarrow doesn't get killed, he will be of great service to us."

"We'll give him every chance," was the General's reply, "and if what you have told me is a true indication of his quality, he shall not lack for opportunity."

This was probably why, a few days later, Bob was placed in command of a number of men to do outpost duty in the direction of the enemies' lines.

For three days the English had been preparing for an attack which they hoped might be of considerable importance, but it was vital to the fulfilment of their plans that they should not be in any way surprised before they were ready.

It was well known that the Germans were in strong force close by, and that any false step might prove disastrous.

It was late in the evening when Bob and the men placed under his command found themselves at the post which had been allotted to them. All round them was wooded country, which made observation difficult, but which also sheltered them from the enemies' fire.

"Anything may happen here, sir," said a young non-commissioned officer to Bob.

"Still things seem pretty quiet; we may as well feed now."

Bob was on good terms with his men, and while he never slackened discipline in the slightest degree, he tried to be friendly with all. He ate the same food and partook of the same danger—never in any degree commanding them to do what he himself shirked.

The little meal was nearly over, and Bob was taking his last drink of tea out of a tin can, when he caught a sound which brought him quickly to his feet.

Ten seconds later every soldier was on the alert, ready for action. Then in the light of the dying day they saw a number of men marching from behind the trees.

"They look like our own men," said Corporal West; "still, them blessed Germans' uniform seems just the same colour as our own in this light."

A minute later some English words rang out in the still evening air.

"We're the Lancashire Fusiliers," said a voice.

"Wait a minute," said Bob to the corporal. "I am going to see who they are before taking any risks."

He covered the intervening space in less than a minute, and saw that the other party was not quite so large as his own, but still of considerable strength. They wore, as far as he could judge, the English uniform, and gave evidence that they were our own soldiers.

Barely had he reached the man whom he supposed to be the officer, however, than from behind the trees a dozen more rushed to him, whom he had not hitherto seen. A second later, he was surrounded.

"Speak one word, and you're a dead man," was the cry. Bob knew what this meant. If his soldiers remained in ignorance, and were unable to give alarm to the general army, the enemy could easily surprise them and have them at advantage. Without a second's hesitation, however, and unmindful of his own danger, he shouted aloud:

"They're Germans. Fire!"

Almost at the same moment there was a crash of rifle shots, and the men around him fell by scores. It seemed almost miraculous that he himself was untouched, but, before he had time to say another word, a huge German struck him with the butt-end at his revolver, and he felt himself hastily dragged away.

For some time after this he little knew what was taking place; he had a vague idea, however, that he was in the hands of the enemy, but, from the fact that they were going away from the English lines, he hoped that his action had not been in vain.

As his senses returned to him, he saw that he was accompanied by a dozen German soldiers, and that he was being hastily dragged towards the German lines.

"We've got you, anyhow," said one by his side.

"Where are you taking me?" asked Bob.

"You'll soon know," was the reply.

"I fancy I spoiled your little game, anyhow," and Bob was able to laugh, in spite of the fact that the world seemed to be swimming around him.

"Yes, our trick nearly succeeded; but, thanks to you, it has been spoiled," was the German's grim reply. "Still, better luck next time."

"I fancy you have lost heavily," said Bob.

"Yes," replied the German, "every man except ourselves is either killed or taken prisoner. Still, we've got you."

"That doesn't matter much," replied Bob. "Your little plans are spoiled, and by this time all the information will be in the right quarters."

The German with whom he had this conversation spoke English almost like a native; indeed, but for certain intonations, he might easily pass as an Englishman. The others were evidently ignorant of our language, but spoke to each other freely in their own tongue. Apparently they imagined that their prisoner was entirely ignorant of what they said, and Bob was not long in gathering the importance of what had taken place. But for his little company, which had surprised and overwhelmed them, they would have been able to carry out their plans without our Army's knowing anything of their whereabouts. It was evident, too, that they were in considerable apprehension as to how they would be treated when they reported their failure. They had not only failed to accomplish their purpose, but they had lost a large number of men. As Bob thought over the matter, he realised that had he hesitated a second before speaking, he would have been silenced altogether, and that they would have been able to accomplish their purpose.

Half an hour later he found himself in the German camp.

Night had now fallen, but in the light of the moon he saw that he was surrounded by vast hordes of men. No one spoke to him, however; but he saw by the many glances that were cast at him, that he was an abject of great interest.

Some time later he came to the conclusion that he had reached the quarters of officers in high position. He was evidently away from the main army, and from the nature of his surroundings he came to the conclusion that he was to be questioned by those in high places.

The officer who had captured him and who spoke English, made his way to a large tent, and was evidently making his report of what had taken place.

Bob could not catch a word of what was being said, but he noted that the officers constantly threw glances towards him.

A few minutes later he found himself amongst a number of men, whom he couldn't help realising occupied important commands.

To his surprise these men seemed to speak to him quite freely, and appeared to desire to be on friendly terms. They told him they were naturally chagrined at the failure of their plans, but congratulated him on his coolness and courage in giving warning to his men. After this, they tried to draw him into conversation about the numbers of the Allies, and of their plans of warfare. As may be imagined, however, Bob was very careful of what he said, and gave them only the vaguest generalities.

One thing, however, struck him very forcibly; instead of being treated harshly, each seemed to vie with the other in showing him kindnesses. Good food was brought to him, and excellent wine was placed before him.

He, like others, had heard of the harshness with which English prisoners were treated; thus, when he found himself regarded rather as an honoured guest than as a prisoner of war, his astonishment was great.

Nearly all the officers spoke English, and they laughed and chatted with him freely. They told him that all the reports he had heard about the bitterness of the Germans towards the English were so many lies. Of course, they said, now they were at war they meant to fight it out to the end, but it was impossible for them to feel bitterly towards the English, with whom they had for so many years been friendly. They also pretended to speak freely of their plans, evidently with the intention of leading him to copy their example.

To his surprise, moreover, he found himself a little later in a well-appointed tent of his own, and whilst it was guarded jealously, he was surrounded with comforts which he had never expected.

It was nearly midnight, and he was just on the point of falling asleep when an officer came to him.

"Follow me," he said brusquely, and ere long he found himself again in the open, walking between lines of soldiers.

As he thought of it afterwards, his experiences that night seemed to him almost like a dream. He was passed from guard to guard, seemingly without reason, yet according to some pre-arranged plan. After what appeared to him an interminable time, he was ushered into the presence of a grave-looking military man, whose uniform bespoke the fact that he was of the highest rank.

This man was quickly joined by another, and a whispered conversation took place between them, and Bob saw that keen, searching glances were constantly directed towards himself.

"He's only a lieutenant," he heard one say.

"It's no use; he will have it so," replied the other; "after he had heard the report, he gave his orders, and there's nothing else for it."

The other shrugged his shoulders, as if impatient at something, and then Bob was again commanded to move forward to another place.

Eventually he found himself in what seemed to him like an ante-room of some apartment of extreme importance. Here he waited for nearly half an hour; still on each side of him stood a soldier, erect, motionless, silent.

Then some curtains were drawn aside, and Bob found himself in what might have been a richly appointed room of an old French mansion.

Seated at a desk, covered with documents of all sorts, his face almost hidden from the light, sat a man—alone. He did not look up at Bob's entrance, but went on reading quietly, now and then making a note on the margin of the papers which he was examining.

He was clad in an officer's uniform, but what rank he held, Bob was unable to determine; that he was in high command, there could be no doubt.

Minute after minute passed, and still this lonely figure sat reading and examining.

The silence was intense; they might have been away in the heart of the country, far from the rush and clamour of life. Had not Bob passed through innumerable hordes of men, he would have thought himself in an uninhabited region.

A little clock on a kind of sideboard ticked distinctly, and as minute after minute passed by, the ticking strangely affected his nerves. On his right hand and on his left, men on guard still stood silent, motionless.

Presently the lonely figure at the desk lifted his head and gave Bob a keen, searching glance. In so doing, although the young man was unable to distinguish any particular feature, he caught a glimpse of the face. As far as he could judge, it was grave and deeply lined. He noticed, too, that the hair was grey, while over the temples it was nearly white.

But what impressed him most was the peculiar quality of the eyes—he did not remember ever having seen such eyes before; they were not large, neither was there anything particular in their colour—and yet, they held him like a magnet. Instinctively he knew that here was a master of men.

Those eyes which looked into his—not large, light, steely grey in colour—spoke of domination—of power; they seemed hard and glittering.

A second later he gave a nod to the officers on guard, whereupon they silently backed out of the apartment, leaving Bob alone with the grave, solitary figure at the desk.



CHAPTER XIX

"Your name is Robert Nancarrow?" The words came suddenly, not in the form of a question, but as an assertion.

The voice was light, almost thin; the eyes were the eyes of a commander; the face, to Bob, suggested weakness.

He spoke English almost as an Englishman might; there was scarcely the suggestion of a German accent.

"Yes, sir," was Bob's reply.

"You are under General Fortescue, and to-night were placed on outpost duty. By your quick, decisive action you gave your men alarm and frustrated the plans of those you call your enemy?"

"I'm very proud to think so, sir," replied Bob.

Again those piercing eyes rested on him. Bob felt a shiver run down his spine as he saw them. Evidently the man at the desk was reading him like an open book; he was estimating his quality—his position.

"You wear a lieutenant's uniform, I see?"

"Yes, sir."

"Were you trained as a soldier?"

"No, sir."

"How long have you been in the Army?"

"Only a few weeks, sir."

"And yet they made you a lieutenant?" and the suggestion of a smile passed his lips—a smile that was almost a sneer.

"You may know, sir," said Bob, "that in England we have what is called an 'Officers Training Corps'; men who join that corps do not necessarily go into the Army, but they join it so that in time of need officers may be forthcoming. When I was at school at Clifton, I joined the Officers' Training Corps, and qualified. That accounts for what would seem a rapid promotion."

"I see; and you come from what is called a good family in England, I suppose?"

"I can claim to have that honour, sir," and again the lonely figure was silent, and appeared to be reexamining the papers before him. His face was still in the shade, but, as far as Bob could judge, he appeared to be thinking deeply. "Who is he, and what does he want with me, I wonder?" he reflected. "I am nobody; why have I been treated in this wonderful fashion?"

"You Englishmen think you are winning in this war, I suppose?"

Again the words came suddenly, and still in the same, almost light, weak voice.

"We do not think, sir—we are sure."

"Ah, how? why?"

For a moment Bob felt afraid to speak; the silence of the room, save for the ticking of the little clock, and the occasional rustle of papers, together with the experiences through which he had been passing, almost unnerved him; besides, there was something uncanny, almost ghostly, about the silent, lonely figure there.

"You would have me speak freely, sir?"

"I command you to do so."

"We shall win, sir, because God is always on the side of right."

"God! Do you believe in God?"

"I believe in nothing else so much."

"Right! Then you think you are in the right?"

"What doubt can there be? We stand for liberty against tyranny; for faithfulness to our promises; but, more than all, we stand for peace against war,—that is why God will be on our side."

Again the lonely figure looked at Bob intently; the young man's words seemed to have caused him some surprise.

"Nonsense!" he said presently. "I suppose you are thinking of the Belgian Treaty? What do you English care about the Belgian Treaty?"

"Enough to risk our very existence, sir."

"Come, tell me frankly—of course, you cannot speak for your statesmen—but do you know anything of the English people as a whole? I was informed just now that you seemed intelligent; perhaps you are. It will be interesting to hear what you regard as the general feeling in England about this war."

"The English hate it, sir—hate it as they hate the devil; they think it is the greatest crime in history. The English are a peace-loving people; they want only peace."

"Ah, then they hate this war?"

"Bitterly."

"And, as a consequence, they do not support it."

"On the contrary, sir, never was so much enthusiasm shown about any war in the history of the nation as is shown about this."

"And yet they hate it. Why then are they enthusiastic?"

"Because they believe it to be war against war; against the spirit of war; against the doctrines that might is right, and that force is the will of God."

"How? I do not understand. Tell me."

"Since you command me to speak plainly, sir, I will, and perhaps I can best tell you what I mean by recounting my own history. My father belonged to a Community in England who believe that all war is sinful, and I was brought up to accept his doctrine; he took the teaching of our Lord literally."

"What teaching of our Lord?"

"What we call the Sermon on the Mount: 'Ye have heard it hath been said, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth; but I say unto you, that if a man strike thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. Ye have heard it hath been said, thou shalt love thy neighbour and hate thine enemy; but I say unto you, love your enemies'; I was taught to believe that, sir, and to regard all war as a crime.

"For some time after this war was declared I refused to volunteer. I was trying to be a Christian, and I did not see how a man who wanted to be a Christian could be a soldier."

His interrogator looked at him, evidently in surprise: "You believe that?"

"In a deep vital sense I believe it still, sir."

"Well, go on."

"That was why I refused to volunteer for the Army, when Lord Kitchener sent out his appeal that he wanted half a million men immediately."

"Why have you changed your mind? It might be interesting to hear," and again there was the suggestion of a sneer in the voice.

"I read some German books, and got to know what the Germans actually thought; I realised the ideas which lay at the heart of Germany, and then I knew that if Germany won this war, all liberty would be gone, all our free institutions would be destroyed, and that the spirit of war would reign more and more throughout the world. I saw that what to the Germans was right, was to us wrong; that the Germans' Gospel was different from ours."

"Different! How?"

"I saw that the Germans gloried in war; that they regarded it as necessary; that to them those who asked for peace committed a crime. I heard one of our Members of Parliament say that he had been in Berlin at a Peace Conference, but that Conference was broken up by the order of the German Government. I read the works of authors whose words are accepted as gospel by the dominant party in Germany, I realised the Germans' aim and ambitions, and I knew that if they succeeded, peace would for ever be impossible in the world. Then I knew I had a call from God, and then I no longer hesitated."

"Ah, you are a dreamer, I see. So you joined the Army; but are your beliefs common in England, may I ask?"

"Throughout the major portion of England they are common," replied Bob. "The great feeling in the hearts of the English throughout the whole country is—we must destroy this War God of Germany. Against Germans as individuals we feel nothing but kindness, but this War God, before which the people fall down and worship, is a devil."

"And you say that is the belief throughout England?"

"That is so, especially among thoughtful people."

"Then why is it you have so few volunteers?"

"Few volunteers, sir! I do not understand."

"Why is it, in spite of Lord Kitchener's call, only a few thousands of the offscouring of the country have joined his Army in spite of huge bribes?"

"Your question shows that you are misinformed, sir. Instead of a few thousands of the off-scouring, as you call them, there has simply been a rush to the English recruiting stations; not only of the poorer classes, but of every class—from our public schools, from the Universities, from our middle-class families, the flower of our young manhood have come."

"Do you mean that your well-born people have been willing to join as privates?"

"I mean, sir, that there are tens of thousands of the sons of our best families, who have joined, side by side with privates with labourers and colliers. In three weeks after the call, half a million volunteered."

"Half a million!" this with a contemptuous shrug, "and what then?"

"The call for the second half-million came," was Bob's reply; "and that second half-million has responded."

"From England alone?"

"From the British Isles."

"But the Empire as a whole has not responded."

"The Germans thought our Empire was a rope of sand—that it would fall to pieces at the first touch of war; instead of that, from Canada, from Africa, from India, from Australia, men volunteered by thousands—by hundreds of thousands."

"And you believe that these can stand against the Army through which you passed?"

"I don't believe—I am sure, sir."

"And that is the feeling of your nation?"

"That is the conviction of our nation, sir."

"But do you realise that Germany has millions of trained soldiers?"

"Yes, sir; but every German is forced to be a soldier. We have in England to-day hundreds upon hundreds of thousands who are soldiers because they long to be at the front. If a man doesn't pass the doctor's examination, he is disappointed beyond measure, because he is longing to fight. Ours is not a conscript army, sir, but an army which pleads to be at the front."

"You are sure of this?"

"I'm absolutely certain, sir."

Again the lonely man turned to some papers before him and read eagerly.

"And when your first million is killed, what then?" He again spoke suddenly.

"Another million will come forward, sir, and, if need be, another, and another, and another. Rather than that Germany should conquer, the whole nation will come forward—the whole Empire will fight."

"And what have the English thought of the German victories?"

"That they are merely passing phases," was Bob's reply; "but this I will tell you: the greatest impetus to volunteers coming forward has been the news of a German victory. Officers have repeatedly told me that our new volunteers, eagerly do more work in a week and learn more of the art of war in a few days than the men learned in six months in time of peace. In England we have no need for conscription, because the best manhood of our nation pleads to be allowed to fight for the country."

"And yet the English hate war?" Again there was a sneer in the voice.

"That is why we are eager to fight," was Bob's reply, "and we shall never rest until German militarism is destroyed root and branch; until this War God which dominates Germany is thrown down, and crushed to atoms; until this poisonous cancer of war which has thrown its venomous roots into the heart of Europe is cut out for ever. We shall never cease fighting until that is done, and when that is done, we shall have peace."

Bob had almost forgotten where he was by this time—forgotten the circumstances under which he spoke, and to whom he spoke; he did not seem to realise that he was in the heart of the German camp—that he was speaking to one in high command in the German army; he had got away from the mere material aspect of the question—he was dealing with spiritual things.

"And if you win"—and still there was a sneer in the other's voice—"what do you expect to gain?"

"As a nation, sir?"

"As a nation."

"Nothing, sir; I've never heard of an Englishman speaking of any gain that might be ours when we win."

"Then what do you suppose will happen?"

"Justice and peace will come, sir; Belgium will have justice."

"Belgium! If she had obeyed our commands, she need never have suffered."

"But why should she obey your commands, sir? You had promised her neutrality and independence, and you broke your promise; she had depended upon you, and you failed her. Then she turned to England, and England will never rest until Belgium has justice."

"And what is to become of Germany?"

"This is to be a fight to the end, sir; and Germany will never have power to make war again."

"You would rob us of our country, I suppose?"

"No, sir, we do not want to rob you of your country. We hope that when the war is over, the German people—many of whom hate war—will come back to their peaceful life; but we shall never rest until the War God of Germany is destroyed and is powerless to make war again. That is why we are fighting, and will fight for the peace of the world."

"But, surely, that is not the feeling of England as a whole?"

"It is the feeling of England as a whole, and we shall never cease fighting until our object is accomplished."

"And the Kaiser, what think you of him? What is the feeling in Britain about him?"

"We believe the Kaiser to be sincere, sir, but obsessed with the war spirit, and that because of it he is full of arrogance and conceit; many believe him mad—that he suffers from a kind of megalomania. Evidently he, like the rest of the war party in Germany, believes that war is a good thing—a virtuous thing, a necessity; and, because of it, he regards himself as a kind of Deity. We believe that his great ambition is to make Germany the dominant power in the world, and that war is the means by which he hopes to accomplish this. That is why we are fighting, sir—and will fight."

While Bob was speaking, he saw that the other's hand moved nervously among the papers on the desk; he saw too that he fidgeted uneasily in his chair, as though with difficulty he restrained himself.

"And you think the Kaiser is responsible for this war?"

"We believe that he has been preparing for it for years. For a long time we fought against the belief, and a great part of the country held that those who regarded him as a kind of War god were mistaken: now we know otherwise. Doubtless, in many respects, he is a great man—a strong man; but he is mad."

Again the man in the chair started: then he touched the bell, and the officers who brought Bob there again returned. The man at the desk nodded to them and they led Bob out. As he withdrew, the last sight which met his gaze was that of the lonely figure seated at the desk, his face still largely in obscurity, but the eyes plain to be seen—light, steely, penetrating—the eyes of a master of men.

A few minutes later Bob heard two of the officers, with whom he had been previously brought into contact, conversing in their own tongue:

"It was unlike him to give an audience to a subaltern like that," said one.

"Yes," was the reply; "but he said he was dissatisfied with the reports of the spies; he wanted to see England's position through English eyes. I wonder what the young cuckoo said to him."

Still between his guards, Bob walked away from the house where he had been for more than an hour; he was oblivious of the fact that he was passed from sentry to sentry, from guard to guard; his mind was full of the strange scene in which he had taken part.

The figure of the lonely man at the desk, who was thinking and working while others were asleep, haunted him, and he wondered.

As he came to the tent from which he had been led more than an hour before, he again saw the officer who had given the command which had ended in the scene we have just described.

"Whom have I been speaking to?" he asked, as the officer entered the tent with him.

"Didn't you recognise him?"

"I fancied I did, but I dared not think I was right."

"You've been speaking to the Emperor of Germany," was the reply.

"I'm glad I spoke my mind," Bob said.



CHAPTER XX

During the three days which followed the one on which he was captured, Bob's experiences were difficult to explain. He found himself being moved farther and farther away from the English lines; but he knew nothing of what was taking place, neither could he understand why he was treated with such kindness and consideration.

He had expected to be immediately forwarded to some dirty German prison, where he would suffer the same fate as many of his English comrades. Instead of which, however, he might almost have been a guest of honour.

For this reason he could not help coming to the conclusion that this special treatment was for some purpose.

On the second day after the interview mentioned in the last chapter, he was closely questioned by some German officers. They evidently believed that he was possessed of information which would be valuable to them, and for that reason did not treat him like an ordinary prisoner.

Although he knew but little of what was going on in the German camp, his experience there was of great interest; it gave him an insight into the life of the German army which he had never hoped for. He realised at once the different atmosphere which obtained there from that which obtained in the English army.

He saw that the German discipline was more severe and more unbending; that not the slightest feeling of friendship or comradeship could be found between officers and men.

He saw too that the German private was scarcely regarded as a human being, but as a pawn on a chessboard; the officer looked upon himself as living in a different world from that of his men.

One day Bob saw that one of the soldiers failed to salute an officer with sufficient promptness to please him, and immediately the officer struck the man across the face with a whip.