Bob saw the great red mark rise on the man's face, where the officer had struck him. He knew that the pain he suffered must be great, but he made no sign; he simply bore the punishment as if he were without feeling.

That same evening he was admitted into the circle of a number of the officers. Bob mentioned the incident he had seen, and asked whether this treatment was common.

"What would you?" replied the German. "The man did not salute quickly, therefore he must be punished."

"And if he had cast a look of disrespect?" asked Bob.

The German shrugged his shoulders.

"We do not allow disrespect from men to their officers," was the reply. "In time of war he would be shot like a dog."

"And in peace?" asked Bob.

"Ah—in peace, he would be treated in such a fashion that he would not soon offend again."

It was at that time, too, that Bob realised the terrible disappointment among the German troops at the progress of the war. It had been given out during its early stages, that the German Army would be in Paris by the end of August. At first their boasts seemed likely to be fulfilled, but as the days went by—as August passed and September came to an end, and then, not only did they not find themselves in Paris, but were driven back mile by mile, until they were nearing their own borders—they were not only dismayed, but astonished. It seemed impossible to them that anything could stand before the German Army.

"It's you English," said one to him. "In 1870 we crushed the French Army in six weeks, and we should have done the same now but for you."

"And the contemptible little army has given you a great deal of trouble?" said Bob.

"That was one of the Kaiser's jokes, but we will pay you out for it."

Upon this they turned the conversation into such a channel that Bob was not slow to see their purpose. They were trying to obtain information from him, and, as may be imagined, he did not fall readily into their trap; indeed, they soon began to regard him as a hopeless case.

He saw, too, that his position was becoming desperate. The German officers were not cheerful and gay as our own were. Even in spite of the most terrible fighting and awful suffering the English had kept cheerful.

It was as though the Germans felt themselves on the losing side. Almost hourly they were pressed back, while great masses of wounded soldiers were being brought from the battle-lines and hurried off to the hospitals.

"This does not seem like another Sedan," Bob heard one officer say to another. "It is all those English; they fight like devils, and yet they are as cool as men on parade. Instead of advancing, we are going backward. Unless there is a change, we shall be driven out of the country."

"They shall pay for it later, never fear," said another. "When we have once beaten them, France will be ours, and England crushed like an empty eggshell."

"When we have beaten them," was the doubtful response.

What Bob suffered it is impossible to say; how he longed to be back among his comrades in the fighting-line, I cannot put into words.

He knew by the questions which were constantly asked him that they thought he would be in a position to render them invaluable service; that was why he had special treatment.

At the end of three days, however, he knew that this special treatment was over, and by the looks that were cast towards him, he felt sure that the doom he expected would be his. He would be packed off to a German prison.

"What is to become of me?" he asked one of the officers, who had constantly been plying him with questions.

"You'll know to-morrow morning," was the curt reply.

As may be imagined, Bob had, during the whole time, sought eagerly for a means of escape; but this seemed impossible. All around him were vast hordes of men, and he knew that any movement towards liberty on his part would mean instant death. Yet he determined to try, and hour by hour had formulated his plans.

Up to the present no alteration had taken place in his treatment. It seemed to him madness that the Germans should spare two men continuously to guard him and watch him; yet they did.

Then, inadvertently, he learned that the august personage with whom he had had such a long conversation on the night of his capture had given special orders concerning him, as it was his intention to speak with him again.

In view, however, of the significant words of the officer who had told him that some change would take place on the following morning, he imagined that this determination had been abandoned.

Bob's opportunity of escape seemed to him afterwards almost like a miracle. One night, as chance would have it, only one of the guards was on duty, and he determined to take advantage of the circumstance. If he were to escape, a bold, almost mad, endeavour must be made. Failure would mean death; but, with all the enthusiasm of youth, he decided to risk it.

The guard was a man about his own height and build, and, under ordinary circumstances, would be his match in physical strength.

Of course a hand-to-hand struggle was out of the question; a cry from the German soldier would mean arousing hundreds of others, and then Bob's fate would be sealed. But if——and his brain almost reeled at the madness of the plan which had been so suddenly born in his mind.

Seizing his opportunity, and taking full advantage of the fact that he had been allowed the use of his limbs, he suddenly struck his guard a heavy blow, which, for the time, stunned him; then, seizing the man's rifle, he struck him a blow on the head which left him senseless. Quick as lightning, he pulled the man's clothes from off his prostrate body, and a minute later he was himself, to all appearances, a German soldier.

As he reflected afterwards, the thing happened so quickly and under such strange circumstances, that it seemed to him impossible.

To overpower a German guard in the midst of thousands of German soldiers, and then to appear among the others in a German uniform, seemed absolutely impossible; yet he did it.

It was for him, now, to find his way through the German lines without revealing his identity. One thing was in his favour—that was a fact which he had kept rigorously secret—he spoke German almost like a German.

I will not weary the reader with Bob's experiences during the next few hours. In the letter he wrote to me about them, he gave but few details. Nevertheless, he told me enough to make me realise that for hours he was within an ace of detection and death.

All around him shot and shell were falling, for although night had come, a continuous bombardment was taking place. Each army was sending forth its missiles of death; the guns of each were pounding to the other's trenches.

Before daylight came Bob had, in the darkness, passed the advance lines of the enemy, and was making his way towards his own people. But even yet his danger was not at an end; indeed, he was in more immediate peril than when he was a prisoner in the German camp. Clad as he was in the enemies' uniform, he knew that at first sight he would be shot down. Still he must take his risk and press forward.

Moreover, he knew that anything like hesitation must end in disaster.

Daylight had just begun to appear when he heard the murmur of voices. He felt sure he was some distance from the main line of the English, and yet he thought he heard some English voices. "It will be some men on outpost duty," he thought; "at any rate, I will have a try." Hiding behind some bushes, he listened intently. "Yes," he thought, "they are our own chaps."

"Who goes there?"

Bob knew it was a question which must be answered promptly.

"I say, you fellows," he cried, "wait a minute."

A dozen rifles were pointed towards him. Evidently the men who held the rifles waited for the word of command to fire.

"It's some German spy," he heard some one say.

Bob threw up his arms as a sign of surrender, and immediately he was seized. A few minutes later he told his story, which at first was not believed; but when he told who he was, and asked to be taken immediately to either General Fortescue or Colonel Sapsworth, the sergeant in command of the little company of Englishmen opened his eyes wide with astonishment.

"By George, he talks like an Englishman, anyhow!" said the puzzled sergeant; "and I did hear some talk three days ago about a Lieutenant Nancarrow giving the alarm to his own soldiers at the risk of his own life; anyhow, we've got him."

Hours later Bob found himself in the presence of his own superior officers.

"Talk about miracles," said Colonel Sapsworth; "but you're about the biggest miracle of this war. Nancarrow, we had all mourned for you as dead, although your name was sent to England as missing. I never knew the General so cut up as when he was told what had taken place; he seemed to think it mean of Providence to allow you to be taken when you had acted in the way you did. By gad, man, do you mean to tell me that you escaped from those infernal Germans?"

"You see, I robbed the poor beggar of his uniform," was Bob's answer, "and I knew their lingo; I had a near shave several times, but it was bluff that did it."

"You're a plucky young beggar, anyhow," and the Colonel laughed almost merrily as he spoke. "Yes, yes, my boy, you'll get mentioned in despatches. It was a great thing you did, and Sir John French will hear of it."

As may be imagined, Bob was questioned closely concerning his experiences in the German lines, and when he told of his conversation with the Kaiser, they listened to him with opened mouths.

"Good, good!" they cried again and again, as he repeated what he had said to the Kaiser. "By George, Nancarrow, if you could get back to England now, you would be interviewed by all the newspapers in the country. You would be a God-send to the English Press."

But times were too stirring for more than a passing notice to be taken of the young Cornishman's experiences.

A little later he was back at his post of duty again, little realising that although a man might be fortune's favourite on one day, the next might bring him dire disaster.

The next day it was evident, as appeared in Sir John French's despatches, which we read in England later, that the German Army were determined to throw all their strength into one crushing blow, for a phase of the battle began, which was continued night and day, in that part of the British Army where Bob was situated, with scarcely any intermission.

During these four days and nights, Bob, with thousands of others, had scarcely time to eat or sleep.

Weary hour after weary hour our men lay in the trenches, amidst pain which amounted to torture, incessantly firing, or again, at the word of command, ready to rush forward to meet the onset of the enemy.

Hundreds upon hundreds were killed; thousands upon thousands were wounded. Never did Bob realise, as he realised then, the meaning of the Prime Minister's words that "war was hell let loose." On his right hand and on his left his comrades fell—some never to speak again; others groaning in agony; others still laughing amidst their pain. Strange as it may seem, when the carnage was at its most awful stage, and when the heavens were rent with the booming of guns and the clashing of arms, Bob could not help picturing this same France, as he had passed through it years before.

Then it was fair and smiling and peaceful; now it was the scene of untold tragedies, such as he had never dreamt of before. Around him was the smoke of burning villages. Homesteads, which a few months before had been peaceful and prosperous, were now laid waste by the grim horrors of war. Mile after mile of fair country-side were made a vast cemetery. Every man fought his duel to the death. These men had no personal enmity against each other, and yet they rejoiced to see the enemy fall.

As Bob thought of it all, even in the midst of the fever of war which possessed him, he became almost mad. Those Germans in whose camp he had been, were, many of them, brave, patient, kindly men. They had their homes and their loved ones just as the English and the French had. They had left behind them sweethearts, wives, children, just as our men had; but because they were overruled by a vast military system, which had at its head the German Emperor, all this had taken place.

To this man, his own ambition was everything. What cared he for the lives of a million men, as long as his power could be extended and his ambitions, satisfied?

France was in the way of his advancement, therefore France must be crushed.

England was his great rival, and therefore England must be swept aside.

Germany must be a World Power, and nothing must stop her in fulfilling her destiny. To this end he had made the country a great war-camp, and for this the gospel of war had been preached. Mercy—love—brotherly kindness—peace, must all be sacrificed for the overwhelming ambitions and vain-glory of this man and his followers; this caused hell to be let loose upon earth.

That was why he and millions of others were fighting; that was why tens of thousands of the flower of young English manhood; as well as the best life of France, were being crushed in the dust. That was why homes were being made desolate—hearts broken.

Still the carnage went on; still fire and flame; still the boom of cannon; the groanings of dying men. Fight, fight; slay, slay, and no quarter.

Towards the evening of the fourth day after Bob's escape from the German lines, came a cry which had become almost familiar to him, and he found himself with his company making a bayonet charge on the enemy.

To a distant spectator, not knowing the meaning of the war, this charge must have seemed like some mad Bedlam let loose. Strong men lunging, stabbing, fighting, with only death in their hearts—and this was war!

All around was the crack of rifle shots, the boom of cannon, and still they pressed on, fighting their way inch by inch.

Suddenly Bob found himself bereft of his sword; his revolver was in his left hand, but in the mad struggle his sword had been stricken from the right.

Words of command could scarcely be heard amidst the din and clamour; on his right hand a soldier fell with the bayonet in his chest of a German, who at the same time fell from a wound which the Englishman had inflicted on him. Scarcely had the Englishman fallen, when he saw the bayonets of the enemy directed towards himself.

Seizing the Englishman's rifle—the bayonet fixed at the end of which was red with blood—he sought to defend himself. Directing his attention to the man who rushed upon him, he fought with all the strength he possessed: "I have mastered him," was the thought which came into his mind, as the German staggered back, but before he could make his victory sure, a blow, whence he did not know, struck him on the collar-bone; a hot, burning pain passed through his side, as he felt himself falling; a moment later there was a stampede over his body.

"It's all over with me," he said, and then he felt himself becoming unconscious.

In a hazy kind of fashion he thought our men were pressing forward, and that the Germans were falling back from them; but this was an impression rather than a thought. Presently it seemed to him that silence reigned. He felt very weary, but suffered no pain. He thought he heard the sound of distant guns; but they were no longer guns, they were the waves which beat upon the great rocks around Gurnard's Head, while he and Nancy sat in the shade, under the cliff, while he told her the story of his love. He was repeating to her the resolves which had been so suddenly born in his mind.

"Yes, Nancy," he said aloud, "I've found my mission; I am going in for war—war against war; that is the noblest work a man can do."

It was all very unreal; all far, far away. "The night is falling fast; how can Nancy and I get home?" he reflected. Then he heard some one singing close by him; it was the song popular amongst the soldiers—a song in which he himself had joined a hundred times:

"It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long, long way to go."

He turned his head, and saw a soldier at his side. He too, had been stricken down in the battle; he, too was unconscious of what he was doing.

"Yes, it's a long, long way to Tipperary," he murmured, and that was all, . . . a great darkness fell upon him.



CHAPTER XXI

When Bob awoke to consciousness again, the scene was altogether unfamiliar to him; he was lying in a big barn-like building, while around him were scores of beds, on each of which lay a wounded man.

He felt weak and languid; but this he would not have minded, it was the awful pain just below his neck that troubled him—a gnawing, maddening pain.

He lifted his hand to try and touch the spot; but this he could not do—it seemed to him as though he caused a fire inside it as he moved.

"I'm not dead, anyhow," he reflected. "What is this, I wonder?"

There were cheerful voices all round him, and he saw forms moving around the beds; but they were very dim—in fact, nothing seemed real at all: "Still I'm not dead, anyhow," he repeated; "as soon as I can, I must tell mother that; as for Nancy, she'll not want to know." That was all; it was like a scene in a play, and it passed away suddenly.

When he awoke again, his mind was clearer. It was the same scene he saw, just a number of beds on which men were lying.

What he took to be a soldier, wearing an officer's uniform, came and stood by him. This man felt his pulse; then he did something to his chest, which gave him a great deal of pain. He didn't trouble much about it, it didn't matter, nothing mattered.

"You'll do all right," said the man; "you'll get better now."

"I'm very tired," said Bob; "I should like to sleep, if I can."

"Then sleep, my dear fellow."

Again he awoke to consciousness; the clouds had altogether gone, and the scene was absolutely clear.

He was lying in an improvised hospital; those men lying on the beds all round were wounded like himself; the man who had spoken to him was the doctor; those figures moving around the beds were nurses—each wore a red cross.

Although everything was clear, he was strangely indifferent to what was taking place. What did it matter to him? He supposed that he would never fight again; his arm was useless. He felt sure of that—his right arm. Still, he had done his work, and at least he had done his best. Then a thought flashed through his mind.

"Oh, but the war is not over yet, and they need me; I must get well."

He threw off the kind of lethargy that possessed him, and presently, when a nurse came to bring him some food, he looked up into her kindly face. She was a Frenchwoman, who was doing all that a woman could, to help; she was not there to kill, but to save.

"Mademoiselle, you're very kind."

"I'm not mademoiselle," was the woman's reply in French; "I am madame." Her voice trembled as she spoke: "I was married just before the war, and my husband was called away to fight."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know; I have not heard for weeks, but I live in hope. I pray that he will come back; meanwhile, I am doing what I can."

"I wish I could fight again," said Bob.

"Ah, but you will; the doctor told me. Ah, here is the doctor!"

"I'm not done for, doctor?" asked Bob.

"Done for? My dear chap, no; you've had a bad time—collar-bone broken, two ribs broken, nasty wound in your side—but in a few weeks you'll be all right again. Is there any one to whom I could write, so that their minds may be relieved about you?"

"Yes," said Bob, "write to my mother," and he told the doctor his mother's name and address.

"Can friends come to see me?" asked Bob.

"To-morrow or the next day, yes, certainly; in a few days you'll be convalescent."

Away in another part of the hospital a man sat smoking a cigarette; he had, during the early part of the day been taking exercise, and, although he felt no pain, he was tired after his exertions.

"In another week I shall be at it again," he reflected. "Heavens, life is a curious whirligig of a business. Fancy, after all I said to him, his coming to the front in this way! A kind of strange irony of fate that he, of all men, should pull me out of the very jaws of death. Of course, he didn't know who I was, or he wouldn't have done it. It was a plucky thing, anyhow; and—and—by Jove, there she is!"

He rose quickly from his chair as he spoke, and went out into the autumn sunshine, where a woman, wearing a nurse's uniform, was talking with a doctor.

"Nancy," said the man, when presently she came towards him, "I haven't seen you for days; this is a lucky chance."

"I haven't much time for anything," she replied; "fifty poor fellows were brought here from the front this morning, and ever since every one of us has been hard at it. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I shall soon be well. In another week, the doctor tells me, I shall be at the front again. But for the thought of leaving you, I shall be jolly glad. We little thought, Nancy, when we parted in Cornwall, and when I told you you might have to nurse me, that it would actually take place."

"No," replied the girl; "but, somehow, the world seems altogether different now; I feel as though ten years had been added to my life. When the war broke out, I was almost happy about it; it seemed so splendid for those I knew to be able to go to the front and fight for their country; war was something glorious. I shall never think about it in that way again. Poor Lieutenant Russell died this morning. Oh, yes, I know it was wonderful the way he bore up to the end; he thought he was back on the battlefield, and he kept on crying, 'We're gaining ground—we're gaining ground! That's it, lad, at 'em; we'll save England from those beastly Germans.' And then he died; yes, it was a glorious death. But all war is horrible, horrible! Do you know, Captain Trevanion, I never cease wondering at the way you were rescued."

"Don't speak to me like that. Surely I am not 'Captain Trevanion' to you; I'm 'Hector.' You've never called me by my name yet; why won't you? I say, Nancy, can't you promise me anything definite before I go back?"

The girl almost shuddered: "Don't talk about that now," she said. "I—I—it's too horrible. You never described your escape to me. Tell me all about it, will you?"

"I can't," replied Trevanion; "you see, I was unconscious."

"I got an English paper to-day," went on the girl; "I only read it a few minutes ago."

"Read what?" There was an anxious tone in the Captain's voice.

"Here it is," she said. "Haven't you seen it?"

"No. What is it?"

"Oh, it says all sorts of fine things about you. Of course, you'll soon be promoted as a consequence. But don't you see, the paper says that a Lieutenant Nancarrow, learning of your danger, went right out into the open, braving the German fire in order to get at you. It is spoken of as one of the bravest deeds of the war. Didn't you know about it? You tell me nothing."

"You see, I was unconscious," repeated Trevanion; "all I know is that some fellow, unknown to me, did a splendid deed and brought me back to the English lines."

"Then you never saw your rescuer?"

"No," replied the Captain quietly; "I was packed off here. Of course, it was fine on the part of that fellow, whoever he was. Some day I hope I shall have the chance of thanking him."

The girl looked away across the peaceful countryside, and, as she did so, a tremulous sigh escaped her.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Trevanion.

"Oh—nothing—that is, it doesn't matter. It seems strange, though, doesn't it, that the man who saved you from death should be called Nancarrow; it is a Cornish name too."

"And—and you are thinking of that fellow?" said Captain Trevanion, almost angrily.

"Have you heard anything about Bob?—that is, do you know where—what he did when he left St. Ia?"

Trevanion did not look at Nancy's face; he couldn't. He knew what he ought to do, he, who always prided himself upon being a sportsman—he ought to tell her that the man who had saved him was the one of whom she was thinking; but he could not—he was afraid. He, who had faced death calmly day by day; he, who had been noted for his bravery on the field, and who had been mentioned in despatches, was now a coward.

In a way he wondered at himself, and he realised that there was more than one kind of courage. He, himself, had called Bob Nancarrow a coward, because he refused to enlist. Now he realised that there was more courage in Bob Nancarrow's cowardice than in his own bravery. Oh, it was all an awful muddle! He ought to tell Nancy what Lieutenant Proctor had related to him just before he was taken away to the hospital; but he couldn't. If he did, he would forfeit his own chance, and he might—yes, he was sure—he would lose Nancy altogether.

"Of course, it couldn't be he," and Nancy seemed to be speaking to herself; "you see, according to the paper, you were rescued by a Lieutenant Nancarrow who belonged to a London regiment. Even if Bob had joined the Army, he couldn't have been promoted so quickly," and the girl sighed again.

"Nancy," said the Captain, "I—I shouldn't be surprised if it were Bob Nancarrow," and the heroism in those words was greater than that of many deeds for which he had been praised. In that moment Trevanion had won a greater battle than he realised. It had caused him little effort to lead his men against the charges of the German infantry, but he felt as though his heart were being pulled out as he uttered the words I have recorded.

The girl's face became pale: "What do you mean?" she asked. "Have you heard anything?"

Still Trevanion could not speak freely; even yet he wondered if there were not some way whereby doubt could be kept in the girl's mind.

"You see," he said presently, "Nancarrow was in the O.T.C. at Clifton, and, I suppose, did very well there. Captain Pringle spoke to me more than once about him, and—and I heard after he left Cornwall that he joined a London regiment; of course, it was only hearsay, and I paid but very little attention to it—in fact, I didn't believe it! Still, it might be he."

The girl's lips became tremulous: "Do you mean that, after all, Bob joined?"

"He might have," admitted Trevanion, and his voice was almost husky as he spoke, and his eyes became hard.

"No, no," she cried, "It couldn't have been he. If he had, he would have told me—I am sure he would."

"Would he?" asked Trevanion.

She stood silent for a few seconds without speaking. She remembered the circumstances under which she had parted from Bob; she called to mind the time when she had given him a white feather in the Public Hall at St. Ia, and her face crimsoned with shame at the thought of it. No one could offer a more deadly insult than she had offered Bob. She had branded him as a coward, regardless of who might be looking on. No, no, even if he had joined, he would not have told her; his heart would be too bitter against her. Why—why, he must hate her now!

"I say, Nancy," and Trevanion's voice was hoarse with pain, "you don't mean to tell me that you care anything about him still? You know what you said; you told me you despised him, and—and, why, you almost told me to hope! Don't you remember?"

The girl's face was set and stern; she did not hear Trevanion's last words; she was wondering with a great wonder.

"Do you know anything besides what you have told me?" she asked.

"I don't understand," he stammered.

"You said it might be he, as though there were a doubt about it; don't you know for certain? You've seen Captain Pringle; did you see him after you recovered consciousness, that is, after you were rescued?"

"Yes, but of course I scarcely knew what was said to me."

"And did Captain Pringle tell you it was—was—the Nancarrow we knew?"

"He said it was Nancarrow from Clifton, and—and that he had done the bravest thing since the war began; but everything was vague to me. I—I, of course, didn't believe it was Nancarrow; you know what he said? But, I say, Nancy, all this makes no difference to us, does it? You didn't raise my hopes only to dash them to the ground! I shall be off to the front again in a few days, and—oh, if you could give me just a word—just a word, Nancy, everything would be different! Hang it all, even if it is he, and, of course, if it is, I shall not be slow in acknowledging it, I haven't a bad record myself, and I shall go back as major, you know."

But the girl did not answer. Slowly she walked across the yard outside the improvised hospital, without even bidding him "good-day."

"I'm glad I told her, anyhow," reflected Trevanion; "it was beastly hard—one of the hardest things I ever did. Good God, it seems the very irony of fate that he should be the man to save me! I wonder if he knew that it was I? Perhaps though he knows nothing of what passed between us. I wonder where he is now. Anyhow, he shall never have her; there's no other woman in the world for me, and—oh, yes, I'm all right."

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Bob still lay in bed, weak as a child, but still on the highway to recovery. He had no fever, and his wounds were beginning to heal.

Hundreds of men lay around him in the huge building which had been commandeered as a hospital; French and English soldiers were carefully nursed without a thought as to their nationality. It seemed as though all the old enmity between France and England had gone for ever, and that this terrible war made the two nations as one.

Men lay side by side, without knowing each other's language; yet, because they were fighting the same enemy, felt themselves as brothers.

"Ah, yes," said a young French officer, who had been wounded on the day when Bob had been stricken down, "we're at the beginning of a new era. Yes, we have had compulsory military service in France; we have been obliged to have it. We knew all the time that the Germans were waiting to pounce upon us and crush us; that was why we wanted to be ready. But the day is dawning, mon ami; we French have been a fighting nation, but we love war no longer. When the Germans are crushed, as they will be crushed; when their army and their navy are destroyed and they are forbidden ever to have others,—then the day of peace will come; then our nation will no longer be bled to pay for millions of soldiers. Yes, we Frenchmen realise it, and we will fight for it to the very last. It is not so much that Germany is an enemy to France and an enemy to England; it is that she is an enemy to peace, to goodwill, to fraternity—that is why we must fight. I had almost given up a belief in Providence, but, mon Dieu, I believe in it now; the good God is on our side."

"I thought France had largely given up the belief in God?" said Bob.

"No, no, there was a superficial scepticism, and what wonder? Have you read the story of France? Ah, yes, the faith is coming back. This last twenty years, mon ami, a change has come about. There is a new force working. People are beginning to believe again that there is something behind everything—something which cannot be explained away by a shallow philosophy. We have a mission, monsieur—the good God has given us and you a mission; it is to fight for peace. Who knows but this is perhaps the last war that Europe will ever know?"

Two days later, when Bob was much stronger, two events took place which must be recorded. One was the arrival of a letter from his mother. The doctor's letter, telling her of Bob's doings, had reached her and so she immediately sent a letter to him full of pride and affection: "Oh, my boy," she wrote, "if once I was ashamed of you, my pride in you now is beyond all words! Everybody knows about you and is talking about you in St. Ia. I simply cannot realise it, and I am crying with joy as I write this. You are spoken of as a hero; the story of your splendid deed in rescuing Captain Trevanion is the talk of the county. I think Captain Pringle met a London journalist in France and told him all about it. Oh, my dear boy, my heart simply aches to be with you, and if it is at all possible I shall get across to France to see you. Meanwhile, I am constantly praying for you. It is all so wonderful, that my boy should do this because of what he believes to be call of God.

"By the way," the letter continued, "I suppose you have heard nothing of Nancy Tresize. I am told she is a nurse in a French hospital, but where, I haven't the slightest idea. Even the Admiral, whom I saw only a few days ago, told me he didn't know where she was, but he hinted to me that her engagement with Captain Trevanion was now practically settled. The Admiral also told me that the Captain's promotion is bound to be very rapid, and that if he lived he would doubtless come back a Colonel; and so, my boy, although my heart is full of joy at what you have done, I cannot help being sad because I am afraid you have lost the best girl in Cornwall. Still, as your father used to say to me, there is nothing higher in the world than to be true to one's conscience."

After Bob had read this letter he lay for a long time in deep thought. Yes, in spite of everything, his sky was black. This ghastly war had wrecked his life's happiness; but for it he and Nancy might have been together, living a life of happiness and making plans for a life of usefulness. War was hell; still he had no doubt about his duty. The God of War must be killed, and this menace to the peace of Europe must be destroyed. It was a divine call, and he must fight to make war impossible.

While he lay thinking of the letter, he saw coming towards him, accompanied by the doctor, a tall, clean-shaven, handsome man, who was evidently deeply interested in what he saw.

"Yes," Bob heard him say to the doctor, "this is the greatest crime in history. Here we are, nearly two thousand years after the birth of our Lord, engaged in the ghastliest war known in the history of the world. The discoveries of science, instead of being devoted to the good of mankind, have been devoted to the work of the devil. I, for years, hoped to be one of the first inventors of a flying-machine; and now I curse the day when the flying-machine was invented. We have conquered the heavens, only to make hell."

The doctor laughed at the other's words: "Perhaps there's another side to the question, Mr. Scarsfield," he said. "If you had seen what I have seen here during the last few weeks, you would know that the war has brought out many noble traits."

"Yes, yes, that may be so, and I have come all the way from the States to see for myself. You see, we are a neutral country, and what I have seen has made me determined to go back home and take a lecturing tour right through America denouncing the crime of war."

"Here is Lieutenant Nancarrow," said the doctor, nodding to Bob's bed.

"Yes, I want to see him," said Mr. Hiram Scarsfield; "I read the account of what he did in the papers, and I am mighty glad that the authorities have allowed me to come here. I want to shake him by the hand."

"Sir," he said, coming up to Bob, "whatever may be my views about war, I admire brave men, and you risked your life to save another. When I read it in the papers, tears came into my eyes, and when I heard that you were here, I just made up my mind to see you, and what I want to ask you, is this: You saved one man; how many have you killed?"

"I don't know," replied Bob.

"Many?"

"I hope so."

"Ah, that is the terror of the whole business! And when you get well again, are you going back to the front?"

"I hope so," was Bob's reply.

"To kill more, I guess?"

"If it is in my power."

"Young man, don't you feel the hellishness of the thought?"

"Yes," replied Bob, "I shudder at the thought of it."

"Then my advice to you is—desert. When you get well enough, get out of France and come to America where you can live in peace. Yes, I know that sounds bad, but then I hate war; it just puts back the clock of the world; it crucifies our Lord afresh."

Bob looked at the other's face attentively, and he saw immediately that it was the face of a strong man. There was no suggestion of the fanatic about it; rather, it was sane and sincere.

"Then you believe in peace—peace at any price?" was Bob's query.

"I guess that is so; I guess there is nothing under heaven worth making hell for, and that is what I have seen these last few weeks. I haven't been right up to the fighting-line—I haven't been allowed—but I have seen enough to make my heart bleed."

"I agree with every word you say," and Bob's voice was almost tremulous.

"Then why are you a soldier?"

"Look here, Mr. Scarsfield," said Bob. "Supposing that the French and the English and the Belgians and the Russians were all to disarm, what would happen, do you think?"

"There would be peace," said the American.

"And what kind of peace?"

"There would be a cessation of bloodshed, anyhow. Mind you, I would rather see all nationalities cease than that war should continue. Let's all sheathe our swords and trust in God. That is my mission now, as long as I live. I am going back to America, and I am going to rouse the whole country to this feeling. It may be that this is because I have Quaker blood in my veins. I am afraid I am not worthy of my Quaker forbears, but now I am convinced that they were right."

"Yes," replied Bob, "I too have Quaker blood in my veins, and I too am convinced in my heart they are right."

"And still you are a soldier," said the other, in astonishment.

"Yes, I am a soldier, until this war is over. Look here, Mr. Scarsfield, do you believe you could ever convert Germany to your way of thinking? Have you ever read the works of those German writers—men like Bernhardi and Treitschke and Nietzsche, and others of that school? Do you know that their teaching is the religion of the war party in Germany, and that that war party rules the Empire? Do you know that it is the avowed determination of Germany to conquer the world by the sword? You do know it? For thirty years Germany has been building up her army and her navy for this purpose. She believes that war is a virtue, and that Germany is called by God to go to war; she worships the War God; she rejoices in it; lives for it. It is preached from her pulpits; it is taught in her schools; it is interwoven into the warp and woof of German life. Because of this they have altered the New Testament. Instead of preaching, 'Blessed are the peace-makers,' they preach, 'Blessed are the war-makers,' and they believe that the Almighty intends them to make war."

"Yes," replied Mr. Scarsfield, "I must admit that. I have read those writers you mention; read them with a sad heart."

"When I read them," said Bob, "I was obliged to throw them away from me, as if I had been touching unclean things. I too was brought up to believe in peace at any price, and I hated war as I hate hell itself; so much did I hate it, that I refused to enlist in the English Army and alienated those who were dearest to me. Before I enlisted, I fought the biggest battle of my life. Presently I realised the meaning of the German creed; I saw the inwardness and ghastliness of their so-called Gospel of War; I saw that to carry out their purpose they were willing to sacrifice honour and to crush humanity. I saw that they professed friendship in order to betray us; I saw that while they accepted our hospitality in England, they filled our country with spies in the hope that when the time was ready, and they made war upon us, they would use those spies for our destruction. I saw that they regarded a treaty as something that could be thrown off like an old garment, and I saw they were determined on war. What could we do? You do not believe, I suppose, that the murder of the Crown Prince of Austria was the cause of this war? No one believes that it was anything but a pretext. Germany made war—a war for which she had been preparing for a quarter of a century. She signed the Treaty to protect Belgium; she gave her word of honour as a nation that Belgium's neutrality and integrity should be maintained. Then she signed her ultimatum to Belgium, and told her that if she did not allow the German Army to pass through Belgium country in order to crush France, she should be treated as an enemy. When our Ambassador in Berlin pleaded that Germany had signed a treaty to protect Belgium, what was the reply? 'Will you go to war with us just for a scrap of paper?' That is what the war spirit means in Germany. They cannot understand how the honour of a nation could stand in the way of her ambition. And so Germany entered Belgium. What was mercy? What was honour? What was purity? Read the story of Louvain, of Malines; think of the outrages, cruelties, blasphemies, and then ask yourself, what could we have done?"

"Yes," said the American; "but war—think of what it has meant."

"Is not there something worse than war?" said Bob.

"What can be worse?" asked Mr. Hiram Scarsfield.

"Violation of honour, of truth, of purity," said the young man earnestly. "That is worse; yes, and it is worse than war to allow a cancer like the German war-spirit to live in the very heart of a continent, making peace and goodwill impossible."

"Yes, young man," replied the American; "you make out a strong case, and I have no doubt that if a war could be just, England is fighting a just war. But no war can be just, because every war is born in hell. As for me, I'm going back to America on my crusade of peace."

"Mr. Scarsfield," said Bob, "may I suggest something to you?"

"Yes; what is it?"

"That you go back to America, and arouse that great Continent to come and help us in this war for peace. I know your President professes to be a peace man. But think! You who could do so much to kill war, are standing by, supine and neutral, while we are shedding our blood to make war impossible. To me, it is the call of God to every young man and to every man who has health and strength, to give his life to kill this war devil at the heart of Europe. And I tell you this, until it is killed, your talk about peace will be so much wind and useless sound. America could, if she would, put an end to this war."

"How?" cried the American.

"By, raising an army of millions of men, well accoutred and armed and provisioned, to come over to help us. If America placed all her mighty weight on the side of England at this moment, it would paralyse the German Army. If America said, as we are saying, that this war should never cease until Germany was powerless ever to make war again, you would do more for peace than if all the talkers in America were to go round preaching peace. That is why, Quaker as I am, I am a soldier, and will remain a soldier as long as God gives me breath, to make peace not a dream, but a reality."

"But what about the Sermon on the Mount, young man?" said the American.

"What did our Lord mean," urged Bob, "when He said, 'I came not to bring peace but a sword?' And what did He mean when He said to His disciples, 'He that hath no sword, let him go and buy one?' Mind you, we do not hate the Germans in all this; we do not violate the command 'Love your enemy.' It would be the greatest blessing ever known to the German people if the Kaiser and all his war-fiends were crushed for ever, for then could peace be made possible."

"Now, Nancarrow," said the doctor, "you have talked enough. You're getting excited as it is, and we want you back at the front."

"I will say this," said the American, holding out his hand to Bob, "you have given me something to think about, and I will tell the Americans what you have said."



CHAPTER XXII

"Nancarrow, it's a nice day; it might be summer. I want you to get out." It was the doctor who spoke. "Yes, I know you feel weak, but one hour in the sunshine will do you more good than all the medicine ever invented."

"I can hardly bear to move my arm yet," said Bob; "and I am as weak as a kitten."

"Yes, I know; but, come, you must get out."

Five minutes later Bob had been taken to a sheltered spot, where he sat rejoicing in the warm rays of the sun. Close by was the great barn-like building, in which many hundreds of wounded men lay, and where scores of brave women were giving their lives to nurse the men who had been fighting for their country.

In the near distance, too, he saw several like himself who were convalescent, and who were drinking in the pure country air and rejoicing in the warm sunlight.

During the last three days he had been able to read, and found that people in the home country had been thinking of those away at the war. Literally tons of periodicals, novels, and other light literature had been forwarded to them; while on every hand were evidences of the fact that millions at home, although they were unable to fight, were anxious to help those who could.

Although it was a scene of suffering, and although many of the sights in the hospital were terrible beyond words, all was cheerfulness and hope. Laughter was heard on every hand; jests were bandied in every direction; all thoughts of differences in nationality were sunk in the common cause of humanity.

"A week or two more," thought Bob, "and I shall be at it again."

A copy of an English newspaper, several days old, lay by his side. He took it up and began to read listlessly. The paper had been sent from Lancashire and contained letters from soldiers who had gone from that county. One letter struck him forcibly: it was headed "Back to Hell." "Dear mother," the soldier wrote, "I am alive and well, but I have had a terrible time. Four days and nights I have been fighting without ever having time to change my clothes. Never once during that time did I take off my shoes. It was simply fight, fight, all the time. Our chaps were just worn out, and so were ordered away to rest for a day or two. That is why I am here and have time to write to you. To-morrow I am going back to Hell; but I am going willingly, because I know I am wanted there."

The tears started to Bob's eyes as he read. There was a touch of heroism, and more than heroism, in the simple lad's letter: "I am going back to Hell, and I am going willingly, because I know I am wanted there."

"Yes," thought Bob; "that just hits off the situation."

At that moment a laugh rang out which caused him to start violently and his pulses to quicken; there was not another voice in the world like that; it was a laugh he had heard a hundred times. He remembered it as it sounded above the singing of the waves down by the Cornish sea; he remembered it on the tennis courts at Penwennack, and on the golf links at Leiant. In another second the laugh was lost in a hoarse, excited cry. The eyes of the two met, but neither spoke a word.

"I—I—this is a surprise," stammered Bob presently.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

It was not a bit what either of them wanted to say, but it didn't matter; words at that moment meant very little.

"I never heard you were here," he went on, after a few seconds. "I've been in the hospital such a long time, too, but no one ever told me."

He tried to speak naturally, but the girl heard the tremor in his voice. "It is because he is so weak," she thought. "How pale he looks!"

"Were you wounded badly?" she asked.

"I got out of it jolly easily, I suppose," he replied; "and I was lucky too—all the bones were set before I recovered consciousness."

"He doesn't tell me he is glad to see me," she reflected. "Of course, he hates me now. How can it be otherwise? When we last met, I was just cruel to him, and I hurt him all I was able."

"I am so glad you are better," she said aloud.

"It's awfully good of you. Won't you sit down?"

They might have been mere acquaintances from the way they spoke, but each felt that the moment was tragic.

"The doctor tells me that in a week, or a fortnight at the outside, I shall be ready to go back," Bob continued. "There's nothing the matter with me now, except weakness."

He knew that all this was not what he wanted to say, or what he ought to say, but somehow the right words would not come. He felt awkward and constrained in her presence. "If she's engaged to Trevanion," he reflected, "it must be painful for her to see me. I wonder if she knows nothing about Trevanion. I wonder if—if she knows what I did."

Nancy did not sit down as he had asked her, but stood awkwardly; she was picking a scrap of lint to pieces, nervously, and with twitching fingers.

"Bob," she said presently, "I want you to forgive me. I insulted you down in Cornwall—you remember that night at the Public Hall. You see, I didn't know that you intended to enlist."

"I didn't," replied Bob; "nothing was further from my mind than enlisting at that moment."

Everything seemed unreal between them. Neither of them was saying what was in their hearts; they seemed to be speaking only for the purpose of making conversation.

"Have you seen Captain Trevanion?" he asked, after an awkward silence. "I heard—that is, I was given to understand, he was wounded; not dangerously, you know, but still, wounded. The doctor assured me he would get better."

He saw a quick flush rise to the girl's pale face, as he spoke; he saw her lips tremble too, but she did not answer him. His heart became as heavy as lead: "Then it is true," he reflected. "Mother was right; they are engaged. Still, I must bear up as best I can. I will not give her pain by telling her what it means to me."

"Oh, Bob, will you forgive me?" she burst out suddenly.

"I—of course, there's nothing to forgive," he answered. "What have I to forgive?"

"I called you a coward," she cried; "I insulted you, and all the time you were braver than I dreamed of. Why, you actually saved him, and in doing so you risked your life in the most horrible way. It was wonderful of you—just wonderful; and I—I—— Oh, I'm so ashamed, Bob!"

"I see what she means," thought Bob; "she's trying to tell me how thankful she is to me for having saved her lover for her."

"I hope you are not worrying about that," he said, and by this time he was able to speak calmly. "I was awfully lucky, and, after all, it was not so difficult; I came back quite safe—not a shot touched me."

"He simply won't see what I mean," was the thought that burned its way into her brain, "or else he hates me. Yes, that is it; he must hate me. How could it be otherwise, when I insulted him in the Public Hall, when I made him the laughing-stock of the whole town?"

"It's awfully fine of you," went on Bob, "to come out here like this. I sometimes think that nurses need more courage than the soldiers. I cannot understand how refined, sensitive women like you can bear to see the horrible sights which are so common in places like this; it is just splendid of you—just splendid. You say you have not seen Trevanion?"

Again her cheeks, which had become pale again, crimsoned.

"Oh, yes," she replied, "he has been in this hospital; I—I have helped to nurse him."

"It seems strange that I never heard of it," said Bob; "but there, after all, it's not so strange—there are thousands of men and scores of nurses here; so it is no wonder that I never heard of either of you being here."

"He went back to the front yesterday," said Nancy. "He's quite well and strong again now. He told me that it was you who rescued him from death. Oh, Bob, it was splendid of you! It's all so strange too. Would you mind telling me why you altered your mind and came to the war?"

"I learned that it was my duty," said Bob simply. "No, I haven't altered my mind about war, or about soldiering at all; but I had to come. You see, after I left you, I learned things to which I had been blind before; it is difficult to explain, but I saw that war could only be killed by war. I saw that the Gospel of Peace meant nothing to Germany, and that if she were allowed to go on unmolested, the ghastly creed of war, and the glory of war, would be established for ever; that was why I became a soldier. I wanted to help to cut it out; destroy it, root and branch—and we must never stop until that has been done. But, I'm so glad Captain Trevanion is better, and has been able to go back; he's a brave man; he's a great soldier. You're engaged to him, aren't you?"

The question came out suddenly, and for a moment it staggered her. She was not engaged to him, and yet, in a way, she was bound to him; she had said that which made Trevanion hope. Her promise was as thin as a gossamer thread, yet it seemed to bind, her like a steel chain.

"Forgive my impertinence in asking," said Bob quickly, noting the look on her face. "Of course, I'd no right to ask."

Still she could not speak; she felt as though she would have given worlds to deny all thought of an engagement to Trevanion, but she couldn't—neither could she bring herself to tell him the story; the words she wanted to speak seemed to seal her lips. A long and awkward silence fell between them—a silence that was painful; both had so much to say, and yet neither could say anything.

"Has any one told you I'm engaged to Captain Trevanion?" and her voice was indistinct and hoarse.

"Yes," he replied, "Proctor told me. He was at Clifton with me, you know, and Trevanion told him."

"Did Mr. Proctor say that?"

"I think so—yes; and then, as soon as mother heard I was here, she wrote to me and told me about it. I suppose your father is very pleased?"

"How he must hate me!" she thought. "It is only a few weeks ago since I promised to be his wife, and then only a week or two later I insulted him, and now he thinks I am engaged to Captain Trevanion. How mean, how contemptible he must think me! He must look upon me as a common flirt; he must believe that my promises to him were just a mockery; it is no wonder he speaks to me like that, and I—oh, I wish I could tell him!"

A French soldier hobbled across the open space. "If you please, mademoiselle, you're wanted," he said; "another train load of wounded men has just arrived, and all the nurses are needed." He saluted Bob, who wore his lieutenant's uniform, and then he hobbled away again.

"This war is a terrible business, isn't it?" he queried, and there was a plaintive smile on his lips.

"It has upset everything, just everything; I hate it!" she cried—"I hate it! Oh, Bob, don't you feel how I hate it?"

She wanted him to understand more than her words conveyed; wanted him to feel that it was not the horrors of the war that moved her so greatly, but the fact that it had separated them.

"Yes, I know what you feel," said Bob; "but you must go through with it, Nancy. I'm sure you will be brave. When it is over, your reward will come. There—go back, and don't mind me."

"I won't go back!" she cried. "Bob, you can't forgive me, because I was so mean, so contemptible; I called you a coward; I insulted you; I—I . . . and now you can't forgive me—and I don't wonder."

"That was nothing," said Bob. "Of course, I did seem like a coward, I suppose, and I don't wonder at your doing what you did; but that's nothing. You'll be happy when it's all over; and really, he's a fine soldier, Nancy; and a fine fellow too; all his men just worship him."

"Oh, Bob, can't you understand?" her voice was almost inaudible.

"Yes, yes, I understand, but don't trouble about me one little bit; I shall be all right. There—go now, they want you."

"Do you really wish me to go, Bob?"

"Of course I do; it's your duty, and duty is everything in these days; it's hard and stern now, but by and by it'll become joyful."

"And when the war is over?" she stammered—"I—I . . ."

"It won't be over yet for a long time; still, we must keep a brave heart. You remember those lines of William Blake, Nancy? I used to laugh at them because he mixed his metaphors, but I see their meaning now:

"I will not cease from mental strife, Nor shall the sword sleep in my hand, Till I have built Jerusalem, In England's good and pleasant land."

There, get back Nancy; perhaps we shall see each other again, before I go?"

Without another word she went back to her grim and horrible work; her feet seemed like lead as she dragged them across the open space which lay between her and the great, gaunt building.

"He will not see," she said to herself; "he doesn't want to see, and he hates me."

As for Bob, he sat a long while alone, in silence. "It's jolly hard on her," he said presently, "and I can't understand it; but she didn't deny that she was engaged to him, and, after all, he's a better man than I."

Day followed day, and he didn't see Nancy again; he was far removed from her in another part of the great hospital. Train load after train load of wounded men were brought there, and she had to be at her post almost night and day. He longed to seek her out and to speak to her amidst the loathsome work she had to do, but the discipline which obtained forbade him to do so; besides, as he reflected, he could do no good; it would only make the wound in his heart bleed more than ever.

Presently he was pronounced fit for duty again, and orders came that he must make his way to the front. Fifty men besides himself who were also recovered from their wounds were to accompany him.

The train was waiting at the little station close by, and at noon that day he was to leave the hospital. By this time he had become accustomed to the place, and knew several of the nurses whose duty lay at his end of the hospital; he also had become on good terms with many of the men.

An hour before the time had come for him to go he had gone out in the open space where he had seen Nancy, in the hopes of finding her, but she was nowhere to be seen.

All his arrangements were made, and nothing was left for him to do until the time came for his departure.

He wandered aimlessly and heedlessly around; his heart ached for just another sight of the woman he loved, and whom he believed he had lost for ever.

He looked at the watch on his wrist: "A quarter of an hour more," he reflected. He had longed to ask boldly to be allowed to see her, but he was afraid to do so; if she wanted to see him, she would have given him a hint, surely.

Then, when all hope had gone from his heart, she came from that part of the hospital where a number of the most dangerously wounded men lay, and ran towards him:

"I heard you were going this morning, Bob," she said, "and I have just crept away like a deserter; I felt I must; I didn't make things plain to you the other day. Bob, you have forgiven me, haven't you?"

"There was nothing to forgive," said Bob, and his heart beat madly.

"You aren't a coward," she said; "you're just—just the bravest man I ever knew. You believe I think that of you, don't you?"

He laughed nervously; he wanted to say a great deal, but the words wouldn't come.

"And—and, Bob, you know what you said to me, what that man Proctor and your mother told you?"

He looked at her in a puzzled way; even yet, he did not dare to hope.

"And—and, Bob"—with the words came a sob—"there's no one in the world but you."

"Nancy," he cried, "You don't mean . . . ?"

At that moment he was summoned to his duty. Still she stood before him—half sobbing, the same light in her eyes which he remembered seeing down by the Cornish sea.

A command from his superior officer was given; he must go. Close by, the soldiers stood in marching order. They had been wounded, but now they were ready for duty again; they were in great good humour, and discipline even yet was somewhat relaxed. They were laughing and talking gaily; they were going back to fight, but they were going with a laugh upon their lips.

A minute later some one had started a song—the song which he had heard often in the trenches, when shot and shell were falling thickly:

"It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long, long way to go; It's a long way to Tipperary, To the sweetest girl I know."

"Nancy," he cried eagerly, "do you mean that . . . ?"

Before her reply had come, even before he had finished his sentence, he had to leave her, and in a minute more he was on his way to the front.

Hours later he heard the booming of the great guns again, and was met with sight and sound which told him of his duty, but through it all and beyond it all he saw Nancy's face; he heard the music of her voice; he remembered the look in her eyes—eyes that were filled with tears, yet shining like stars, and he thought again and again of her words: "There's no one in the world but you."



NOTE

I had just finished reading the proofs of the aforegoing, when I received a letter from my friend, a part of which I have decided to insert here.

"It is now some time since you heard from me, and I am scribbling this hurried note to tell you that I am still alive and well. That I am able to say this seems to me nothing less than miraculous, for I have been in the thick of the fighting ever since I left the hospital. When I have time to write fully, I shall have some wonderful things to tell you concerning the heroism of our Army, and of the marvellous way in which we have not only held our own, but advanced. As you will see, I am now in Belgium, and we are in the midst of one of the most deadly struggles ever known in history. Nothing but the almost superhuman courage of our men could have saved us. It has been simply miraculous. Again and again have the Germans hurled themselves upon us, only to fail. There are signs now that their attacks are weakening, and their defence more feeble. If we only had more men, we could put them to rout and that right quickly. That is our great need. More men like the London Scottish, who have simply covered themselves with glory.

"It is said here that recruiting in England is slackening somewhat. Such news is simply appalling. You should hear what the men at the front are saying about the shirkers who are hanging back. They are a disgrace to the country, and deserve to be flogged. Let the nation be true to itself now, and we shall for ever cut out this cancer of German militarism, and bring in the time of universal peace.

"Have the shirkers at home ever thought, I wonder, of what would happen if Germany should conquer! The very suggestion of it drives me almost mad. Everything depends on the loyalty and enthusiasm of to-day. For, God's sake do something to stir the people up, to make them feel how pressing is the need.

"If ever God called volunteers to fight in a Holy War, it is now. You know what a 'peace man' I have always been, and it is because I am a 'peace man' still, that I say this. On every hand the Almighty is calling us to fight for peace. It is not against the Germans that we are fighting, but against the mad, devilish spirit which they have deified. Let us be true now, and we shall surely strangle that spirit.

"You have heard of the story of Thoreau and Emerson. Thoreau went to suffering and prison for the sake of truth and conscience.

"'Why are you here?' asked Emerson.

"'Why are you not here?' retorted Thoreau.

"That is what I want to say to the young men of England. 'Why are you not here, or why are you not training to come here?'

"Shall I live through it all I wonder, and shall I ever see my native land again? I hope so, I pray so, for I have so much to live for, more even than I dare to tell you. But even if I do not, even if I die, as thousands of the brave men here are dying, I shall be glad to lay down my life for the cause of honour, and liberty, and peace.

"I wonder if it is possible for you to get across to France or Belgium and get near the fighting-line? I wish you could. There are stories I could tell you that would set your heart on fire. Come, if you can!"

The remainder of Bob's letter is not for publication, interesting though it is. But this I will say: if I can get near the fighting-line I shall, and then, perhaps I shall be able to complete the story, which is only just begun.

THE END