A few weeks later the War Office if it was the War Office, but one gets into the habit of attributing these things to the War Office had one of its regular spasms. It woke up suddenly with a touch of nightmare, and it got fearfully busy for a few weeks before going to sleep again. All manner of innocent people were dragged into the vortex of its activities, and blameless lives were disturbed and terrorised. This particular enthusiasm involved even such placid and contented souls as the Chaplain-General, the Principal Chaplain, their entire staffs and a great many of their rank and file. It created a new department, acquired many additional offices for the B.E.F., dragged from their comfortable billets a certain number of high-principled base officers, and then (by the mercy of Providence) flickered out almost as soon as the said officers bad made themselves a little more comfortable than before in their new posts.

It was so widespread a disturbance that even Peter Graham, most harmless of men, with plenty of his own fish to fry, was dragged into it, as some leaf, floating placidly downstream, may be caught and whirled away in an excited eddy. More definitely, it removed him from Havre and Julie just when he was beginning to want most definitely to stay there, and of course, when it happened, he could hardly know that it was to be but a temporary separation.

He was summoned, then, one fine morning, to his A.C.G.’s office in town, and he departed on a bicycle, turning over in his mind such indiscretions of which he had been guilty and wondering which of them was about to trip him. Pennell had been confident, indeed, and particular.

“You’re for it, old bean,” he had said. “There’s a limit to the patience even of the Church. They are going to say that there is no need for you to visit hospitals after dark, and that their padres mustn’t be seen out with nurses who smoke in public. And all power to their elbow, I say.”

Peter’s reply was certainly not in the Prayer-Book, and would probably have scandalised its compilers, but he thought, secretly, that there might be something in what his friend said. Consequently he rode his bicycle carelessly, and was indifferent to tram-lines and some six inches of nice sticky mud on parts of the pave. In the ordinary course, therefore, these things revenged themselves upon him. He came off neatly and conveniently opposite a small cafe debit at a turn in the dock road, and the mud prevented the pave from seriously hurting him.

A Frenchman, minding the cross-lines, picked him up, and he, madame, her assistant, and a customer, carried him into the kitchen off the bar and washed and dried him. The least he could do was a glass of French beer all round, with a franc to the dock labourer who straightened his handle-bars and tucked in a loose spoke, and for all this the War Office if it was the War Office, for it may, quite possibly, have been Lord Northcliffe or Mr. Bottomley, or some other controller of our national life was directly responsible. When one thinks that in a hundred places just such disturbances were in progress in ten times as many innocent lives, one is appalled at their effrontery. They ought to eat and drink more carefully, or take liver pills.

However, in due time Peter sailed up to the office of his immediate chief but little the worse for wear, and was ushered in. He was prepared for a solitary interview, but he found a council of some two dozen persons, who included an itinerant Bishop, an Oxford Professor, a few Y.M.C.A. ladies, and triumph of the A.C.G. a Labour member. Peter could not conceive that so great a weight of intellect could be involved in his affairs, and took comfort. He seated himself on a wooden chair, and put on his most intelligent appearance; and if it was slightly marred by a mud streak at the back of his ear, overlooked by madame’s kindly assistant who had attended to that side of him, he was not really to blame. Again, it was the fault of Lord Northcliffe or or any of the rest of them.

It transpired that he was slightly late: the Bishop had been speaking. He was a good Bishop and eloquent, and, as the A.C.G. who now rose to take the matter in hand remarked, he had struck the right note. In all probability it was due to Peter’s having missed that note that he was so critical of the scheme. The note would have toned him up. He would have felt a more generous sympathy for the lads in the field, and would have been more definitely convinced that something must be done. If not plainly stated in the Holy Scriptures, his lordship had at least found it indicated there, but Peter was not aware of this. He only observed that the note had made everyone solemn and intense except the Labour member. That gentleman, indeed, interrupted the A.C.G. before he was fairly on his legs with the remark: “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but as this is an informal conference, does anyone mind if I smoke?"...

Peter’s A.C.G. was anything but a fool, and the nightmare from Headquarters had genuinely communicated itself to him. He felt all he said, and he said it ably. He lacked only in one regard: he had never been down among the multitude. He knew exactly what would have to have been in his own mind for him to act as he believed some of them were acting, and he knew exactly how he would, in so deplorable a condition of affairs, have set about remedying it. These things, then, he stated boldly and clearly. As he proceeded, the Y.M.C.A. ladies got out notebooks, the Professor allowed himself occasional applause, and the Labour member lit another pipe.

It appeared that there was extreme unrest and agitation among the troops, or at least a section of the troops, for no one could say that the armies in the field were not magnificent. They had got to remember that the Tommy of to-day was not as the Tommy of yesterday not that he suffered by comparison, but that he was far better educated and far more inclined to think for himself. They were well aware that a little knowledge was a dangerous thing, or, again, as his friend the Bishop would have doubtless put it, how great a matter a little fire kindleth. There was no escaping it: foreign propaganda, certain undesirable books and papers books and papers, he need hardly say, outside the control of the reputable Press and even Socialistic agitators, were abroad in the Army. He did not wish to say too much; it was enough to remind them of what, possibly, they already knew, that certain depots on certain occasions had refused to sing the National Anthem, and were not content with their wages. Insignificant as these things might be in detail, G.H.Q. had felt there was justifiable cause for alarm. This meeting had gathered to consider plans for a remedy.

Now he thanked God that they were not Prussians. There must be no attempt at coercion. A war for liberty must be won by free people. One had, of course, to have discipline in the Army, but theirs was to-day a citizen Army. His friend who had left his parliamentary duties to visit France might rest assured that the organizations represented there that morning would not forget that. In a word, Tommy had a vote, and he was entitled to it, and should keep it. One day he should even use it; and although no one could wish to change horses crossing a stream, still, they hoped that day would speedily come the day of peace and victory.

But meantime, what was to be done? As the Bishop had rightly said, something must be done. Resolute on this point, H.Q. had called in the C.G. and the P.C. and, he believed, expert opinion on both sides the House of Commons; and the general opinion agreed upon was that Tommy should be educated to vote correctly when the time came, and to wait peacefully for that time. The Professor could tell them of schemes even now in process of formation at home in order that the land they loved might be cleaner, sweeter, better and happier, in the days to come. But Tommy, meantime, did not know of these things. He was apparently under the delusion that he must work out his own salvation, whereas, in point of fact, it was being worked out for him scientifically and religiously. If these things were clearly laid before him, H.Q. was convinced that agitation, dissatisfaction, and even revolution for there were those who thought they were actually trending in that direction would be nipped in the bud.

The scheme was simple and far-reaching. Lectures would be given all over the areas occupied by British troops. Every base would be organised in such a way that such lectures and even detailed courses of study should be available for everyone. Every chaplain, hutworker, and social entertainer must do his or her bit. They must know how to speak wisely and well not all in public, but, everyone as the occasion offered, privately, in hut or camp, to inquiring and dissatisfied Tommies. They would doubtless feel themselves insufficient for these things, but study-circles were to be formed and literature obtained which would completely furnish them with information. He would conclude by merely laying on the table a bundle of the splendid papers and tracts already prepared for this work. The Professor would now outline what was being attempted at home, and then the meeting would be open for discussion.

The Professor was given half an hour, and he made an excellent speech for a cornered and academic theorist. The first ten minutes he devoted to explaining that he could not explain in the time; in the second, tempering the wind to the shorn lamb, he pointed out that it was no use his outlining schemes not yet completed, or that they could read for themselves, or that, possibly, without some groundwork, they could not understand; and in the third ten minutes he outlined the committees dealing with the work and containing such well-known names as Robert Smiley, Mr. Button, and Clydens. He sat down. Everyone applauded the M.P., and possibly the A.C.G., because they honestly knew and respected these gentlemen, and the rest because they felt they ought to do so. The meeting was then opened for discussion.

Peter took no part in what followed, and, indeed, nothing over-illuminating was said save one remark, cast upon the waters by the Labour member, which was destined to be found after many days. They were talking of the lectures, and one of the ladies (Peter understood a Girton lecturer) was apparently eager to begin without delay. The M.P. begged to ask a question: Were there to be questions and a discussion?

The A.C.G. glanced at a paper before him, and rose. He apologised for omitting to mention it before, but H.Q. thought it would be subverse of all discipline if, let us say, privates should be allowed to get up and argue with the officers who might have addressed them. They all knew what might be said in the heat of argument. Also, if he might venture to say so, some of their lecturers, though primed with the right lecture, might not be such experts that they could answer every question, and plainly failure to satisfy a questioner might be disastrous. But questions could be written and replies given at the next lecture. He thought, smiling, that some of them would perhaps find that convenient.

The M.P. leaned back in his chair. “Well, sir,” he said, “I’m sorry to be a wet-blanket, but if that is so, the scheme is wrecked from the start. You don’t know the men; I do. They’re not going to line up, like the pupils of Dotheboys Academy, for a spoonful of brimstone and treacle.”

The meeting was slightly scandalised. The chairman, however, rose to the occasion. That, he said, was a matter for H.Q. They were there to do their duty. And, being an able person, he did his. In ten minutes they were formed into study-bands and were pledged to study, with which conclusion the meeting adjourned.

Peter was almost out of the door when he heard his name called, and turning, saw the A.C.G. beckoning him. He went up to the table and shook hands.

“Do you know the Professor?” asked his superior. “Professor, this is Mr. Graham.”

“How do you do?” said the man of science. “You are Graham of Balliol, aren’t you? You read Political Science and Economics a little at Oxford, I think? You ought to be the very man for us, especially as you know how to speak.”

Peter was confused, but, being human, a little flattered. He confessed to the sins enumerated, and waited for more.

“Well,” said the A.C.G., “I’ve sent in your name already, Graham, and they want you to go to Abbeville for a few weeks. A gathering is to be made there of the more promising material, and you are to get down to the work of making a syllabus, and so on. You will meet other officers from all branches of the Service, and it should be interesting and useful. I presume you will be willing to go? Of course it is entirely optional, but I may say that the men who volunteer will not be forgotten.”

“Quite so,” said the Professor. “They will render extremely valuable service. I shall hope to be there part of the time myself.”

Peter thought quickly of a number of things, as one does at such a moment. Some of them were serious things, and some quite frivolous like Julie. But he could hardly do otherwise than consent. He asked when he should have to go.

“In a few days. You’ll have plenty of time to get ready. I should advise you to write for some books, and begin to read up a little, for I expect you are a bit rusty, like the rest of us. And I shall hope to have you back lecturing in this Army area before long.”

So to speak, bowed out, Peter made his way home. In the Rue de Paris Julie passed him, sitting with a couple of other nurses in an ambulance motor-lorry, and she waved her hand to him. The incident served to depress him still more, and he was a bit petulant as he entered the mess. He flung his cap on the table, and threw himself into a chair.

“Well,” said Pennell, who was there, “on the peg all right?”

“Don’t be a fool!” said Peter sarcastically. “I’m wanted on the Staff. Haig can’t manage without me. I’ve got to leave this perishing suburb and skip up to H.Q., and don’t you forget it, old dear. I shall probably be a Major-General before you get your third pip. Got that?”

Pennell took his pipe from his mouth. “What’s in the wind now?” he demanded.

“Well, you might not have noticed it, but I’m a political and economic expert, and Haig’s fed up that you boys don’t tumble to the wisdom of the centuries as you ought. Consequently I’ve got to instruct you. I’m going to waltz around in a motor-car, probably with tabs up, and lecture. And there aren’t to be any questions asked, for that’s subversive of discipline.”

“Good Lord, man, do talk sense! What in the world do you mean?”

“I mean jolly well what I say, if you want to know, or something precious like it. The blinking Army’s got dry-rot and revolutionary fever, and we may all be murdered in our little beds unless I put a shoulder to the wheel. That’s a bit mixed, but it’ll stand. I shall be churning out this thing by the yard in a little.”

“Any extra pay?” demanded Pennell anxiously. “I can lecture on engineering, and would do for an extra sixpence. Whisky’s going up, and I haven’t paid my last mess bill.”

“You haven’t, old son,” said Arnold, coming in, “and you’ve jolly well got to. Here’s a letter for you, Graham.”

Peter glanced at the envelope and tore it open. Pennell knocked his pipe out with feigned dejection. “The fellow makes me sick, padre,” he said. “He gets billets-doux every hour of the blessed day.”

Peter jumped up excitedly. “This is better,” he said. “It’s a letter from Langton at Rouen, a chap I met there who writes occasionally. He’s been hauled in for this stunt himself, and is to go to Abbeville as well. By Jove, I’ll go up with him if I can. Give me some paper, somebody. I’ll have to write to him at once, or we’ll boss it.”

“And make a will, and write to a dozen girls, I should think,” said Pennell. “I don’t know what the blooming Army’s coming to. Might as well chuck it and have peace, I think. But meantime I’ve got to leave you blighted slackers to gad about the place, and go and do an honest day’s work. I don’t get Staff jobs and red tabs. No; I help win the ruddy war, that’s all. See you before you go, Graham, I suppose? They’ll likely run the show for a day or two more without you. There’ll be time for you to stand a dinner on the strength of it yet.”

A week later Peter met Langton by appointment in the Rouen club, the two of them being booked to travel that evening via Amiens to Abbeville. His tall friend was drinking a whisky-and-soda in the smoke-room and talking with a somewhat bored expression to no less a person than Jenks of the A.S.C.

Peter greeted them. “Hullo!” he said to the latter. “Fancy meeting you here again. Don’t say you’re going to lecture as well?”

“The good God preserve us!” exclaimed Jenks blasphemously. “But I am off in your train to Boulogne. Been transferred to our show there, and between ourselves, I’m not sorry to go. It’s a decent hole in some ways, Boulogne, and it’s time I got out of Rouen. You’re a lucky man, padre, not to be led into temptation by every damned girl you meet. I don’t know what they see in me,” he continued mournfully, “and, at this hour of the afternoon, I don’t know what I see in them.”

“Nor do I,” said Langton. “Have a drink, Graham? There’ll be no getting anything on the ruddy train. We leave at six-thirty, and get in somewhere about four a.m. next morning, so far as I can make out.”

“You don’t sound over-cheerful,” said Graham.

“I’m not. I’m fed up over this damned lecture stunt! The thing’s condemned to failure from the start, and at any rate it’s no time for it. Fritz means more by this push than the idiots about here allow. He may not get through; but, on the other hand, he may. If he does, it’s UP with us all. And here we are to go lecturing on economics and industrial problems while the damned house is on fire!”

Peter took his drink and sat down. “What’s your particular subject?” he asked.

“The Empire. Colonies. South Africa. Canada. And why? Because I took a degree in History in Cambridge, and have done surveying on the C.P.R. Lor’! Finish that drink and have another.”

They went together to the station, and got a first to themselves, in which they were fortunate. They spread their kit about the place, suborned an official to warn everyone else off, and then Peter and Langton strolled up and down the platform for half an hour, as the train was not now to start till seven. Somebody told them there was a row on up the line, though it was not plain how that would affect them. Jenks departed on business of his own. A girl lived somewhere in the neighbourhood.

“How’re you getting on now, padre?” asked Langton.

“I’m not getting on,” said Peter. “I’m doing my job as best I can, and I’m seeing all there is to see, but I’m more in a fog than ever. I’ve got a hospital at Havre, and I distribute cigarettes and the news of the day. That’s about all. I get on all right with the men socially, and now and again I meet a keen Nonconformist who wants me to pray with him, or an Anglican who wants Holy Communion, but not many. When I preach I rebuke vice, as the Apostle says, but I’m hanged if I really know why.”

Langton laughed. “That’s a little humorous, padre,” he said. “What about the Ten Commandments?”

Peter thought of Julie. He kicked a stone viciously. “Commandments are no use,” he said “not out here.”

“Nor anywhere,” said Langton, “nor ever, I think, too. Why do you suppose I keep moderately moral? Chiefly because I fear natural consequences and have a wife and kiddies that I love. Why does Jenks do the opposite? Because he’s more of a fool or less of a coward, and chiefly loves himself. That’s all, and that’s all there is in it for most of us.”

“You don’t fear God at all, then?” demanded Peter.

“Oh that I knew where I might find him!” quoted Langton. “I don’t believe He thundered on Sinai, at any rate.”

“Nor spoke in the Sermon on the Mount?”

“Ah, I’m not so sure but it seems to me that He said too much or He said too little there, Graham. One can’t help ‘looking on’ a woman occasionally. And in any case it doesn’t seem to me that the Sermon is anything like the Commandments. Brotherly love is behind the first, fear of a tribal God behind the second. So far as I can see, Christ’s creed was to love and to go on loving and never to despair of love. Love, according to Him, was stronger than hate, or commandments or preaching, or the devil himself. If He saved souls at all, He saved them by loving them whatever they were, and I reckon He meant us to do the same. What do you make of the woman taken in adultery, and the woman who wiped His feet with her hair? Or of Peter? or of Judas? He saved Peter by loving him when he thought he ought to have the Ten Commandments and hell fire thrown at his head and I reckon He’d have saved Judas by giving him that sop-token of love if he hadn’t had a soul that could love nothing but himself.”

“What is love, Langton?” asked Peter, after a pause.

The other looked at him curiously, and laughed. “Ask the Bishops,” he said. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know. Living with the woman to whom you’re married because you fear to leave her, or because you get on all right, is not love at any rate. I can’t see that marriage has got much to do with it. It’s a decent convention of society at this stage of development perhaps, and it may sign and seal love for some people. But I reckon love’s love a big positive thing that’s bigger than sin, and bigger than the devil. I reckon that if God sees that anywhere, He’s satisfied. I don’t think Cranmer’s marriage service affects Him much, nor the laws of the State. If a man cares to do without either, he runs a risk, of course. Society’s hard on a woman, and man’s meant to be a gregarious creature. But that’s all there is in it.”

“But how can you tell lust from love?” demanded Peter.

“You can’t, I think,” said Langton. “Most men can’t, anyway. Women may do, but I don’t know. I reckon that what they lust after mostly is babies and a home. I don’t think they know it any more than men know that what they’re after is the gratification of a passion; but there it is. We’re sewer rats crawling up a damned long drain, if you ask me, padre! I don’t know who said it, but it’s true.”

They turned in their walk, and Peter looked out over the old town. In the glow of sunset the thin iron modern spire of the cathedral had a grace not its own, and the roofs below it showed strong and almost sentient. One could imagine that the distant cathedral brooding over the city heard, saw, and spoke, if in another language than the language of men.

“If that were all, Langton,” said Peter suddenly, “I’d shoot myself.”

“You’re a queer fellow, Graham,” said Langton. “I almost think you might. I’d like to know what becomes of you, anyway. Forgive me I don’t mean to be rude but you may make a parson yet. But don’t found a new religion for Heaven’s sake, and don’t muddle up man-made laws and God-made instincts if they are God-made,” he added.

Peter said nothing, until they were waiting at the carriage-door for Jenks. Then he said: “Then you think out here men have simply abandoned conventions, and because there is no authority or fear or faith left to them, they do as they please?”

Langton settled himself in a corner. “Yes,” he said, “that’s right in a way. But that’s negatively. I’d go farther than that. Of course, there are a lot of Judas Iscariots about for whom I shouldn’t imagine the devil himself has much time, though I suppose we ought not to judge ’em, but there are also a lot of fine fellows and fine women. They are men and women, if I understand it, who have sloughed off the conventions, that are conventions simply for convention’s sake, and who are reaching out towards the realities. Most of them haven’t an idea what those are, but dumbly they know. Tommy knows, for instance, who is a good chum and who isn’t; that is, he knows that sincerity and unselfishness and pluck are realities. He doesn’t care a damn if a chap drinks and swears and commits what the Statute-Book and the Prayer-Book call fornication. And he certainly doesn’t think there is an ascending scale of sins, or at any rate that you parsons have got the scale right.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if we haven’t,” said Peter. “The Bible lumps liars and drunkards and murderers and adulterers and dogs whatever that may mean into hell altogether.”

“That’s so,” said Langton, sticking a candle on the window-sill; “but I reckon that’s not so much because they lie or drink or murder or lust or or grin about the city like our friend Jenks, who’ll likely miss the boat for that very reason, but because of something else they all have in common.”

“What’s that?” demanded Peter.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Langton.

At this moment the French guard, an R.T.O., and Jenks appeared in sight simultaneously, the two former urging the latter along. He caught sight of them, and waved.

“Help him in,” said the R.T.O., a jovial-looking subaltern, genially “and keep him there,” he added under his voice. “He’s had all he can carry, and if he gets loose again he’ll be for the high jump. The wonder is he ever got back in time.”

Peter helped him up. The subaltern glanced at his badges and smiled. “He’s in good company anyway, padre,” he said. “If you’re leaving the ninety-and-nine in the wilderness, here’s one to bring home rejoicing.” He slammed the door. “Right-o!” he said to the guard; “they’re all aboard now.” The man comprehended the action, and waved a flag. The train started after the manner of French trains told off for the use of British soldiers, and Jenks collapsed on the seat.

“Damned near thing that!” he said unsteadily; “might have missed the bloody boat! I saw my little bit, though. She’s a jolly good sort, she is. Blasted strong stuff that French brandy, though! Whiskies at the club first, yer know. Give us a hand, padre; I reckon I’ll just lie down a bit.... Jolly good sort of padre, eh, skipper? What?”

Peter helped him into his place, and then came and sat at his feet, opposite Langton, who smiled askance at him. “I’ll read a bit,” he said. “Jenks won’t trouble us further; he’ll sleep it off. I know his sort. Got a book, padre?”

Peter said he had, but that he wouldn’t read for a little, and he sat still looking at the country as they jolted past in the dusk. After a while Langton lit his candle, and contrived a wind-screen, for the centre window was broken, of a newspaper. Peter watched him drowsily. He had been up early and travelled already that day. The motion helped, too, and in half an hour or so he was asleep.

He dreamt that he was preaching Langton’s views on the Sermon on the Mount in the pulpit of St. John’s, and that the Canon, from his place beside the credence-table within the altar-rails, was shouting at him to stop. In his dream he persisted, however, until that irate dignitary seized the famous and massive offertory-dish by his side and hurled it in the direction of the pulpit. The clatter that it made on the stone floor awoke him.

He was first aware that the train was no longer in motion, and next that Langton’s tall form was leaning half out of the window. Then confused noises penetrated his consciousness, and he perceived that light flickered in the otherwise darkened compartment. “Where are we?” he demanded, now fully awake. “What’s up?”

Langton answered over his shoulder. “Some where outside of a biggish town,” he said; “and there’s the devil of a strafe on. The whole sky-line’s lit up, but that may be twenty miles off. However, Fritz must have advanced some.”

He was interrupted by a series of much louder explosions and the rattle of machine-gun fire. “That’s near,” he said. “Over the town, I should say an air-raid, though it may be long-distance firing. Come and see for yourself.”

He pulled himself back into the carriage, and Peter leaned out of the window in his turn. It was as the other had said. Flares and sudden flashes, that came and went more like summer-lightning than anything else, lit up the whole sky-line, but nearer at hand a steady glow from one or two places showed in the sky. One could distinguish flights of illuminated tracer bullets, and now and again what he took to be Very lights exposed the countryside. Peter saw that they were in a siding, the banks of which reached just above the top of the compartments. It was only by craning that he could see fields and what looked like a house beyond. Men were leaning out of all the windows, mostly in silence. In the compartment next them a man cursed the Huns for spoiling his beauty sleep. It was slightly overdone, Peter thought.

“Good God!” said, his companion behind him. “Listen!”

It was difficult, but between the louder explosions Peter concentrated his senses on listening. In a minute he heard something new, a faint buzz in the air.

“Aeroplanes,” said Langton coolly. “I hope they don’t spot us. Let me see. Maybe it’s our planes.” He craned out in Peter’s place. “I can’t see anything,” he said, “and you can hear they’re flying high.”

Down the train everyone was staring upwards now. “Christ!” exclaimed Langton suddenly, “some fool’s lighting a pipe! Put that match out there,” he called.

Other voices took him up. “That’s better,” he said in a minute. “Forgive my swearing, padre, but a match might give us away.”

Peter was silent, and, truth to tell, terrified. He tried hard not to feel it, and glanced at Jenks. He was still asleep, and breathing heavily. He pressed his face against the pane, and tried to stare up too.

“They’re coming,” said Langton suddenly and quickly. “There they are, too Hun planes. They may not see us, of course, but they may....” He brought his head in again and sat down.

“Is there anything we can do?” said Peter.

“Nothing,” said Langton, “unless you like to get under the seat. But that’s no real good. It’s on the knees of the gods, padre, whatever gods there be.”

Just then Peter saw one. Sailing obliquely towards them and lit by the light of a flare, the plane looked serene and beautiful. He watched it, fascinated.

“It’s very low two hundred feet, I should say,” said Langton behind him. “Hope he’s no pills left. I wonder whether there’s another. Let’s have a look the other side.”

He had scarcely got up to cross the compartment when the rattle of a machine-gun very near broke out. “Our fellows, likely,” he exclaimed excitedly, struggling with the sash, but they knew the truth almost as he spoke.

Langton ducked back. A plane on the other side was deliberately flying up the train, machine-gunning. “Down, padre, for God’s sake!” he exclaimed, and threw himself on the floor.

Peter couldn’t move. He heard the splintering of glass and a rending of woodwork, some oaths, and a sudden cry. The whirr of an engine filled his ears and seemed, as it were, on top of them. Then there was a crash all but at his side, and next instant a half-smothered groan and a dreadful gasp for breath.

He couldn’t speak. He heard Langton say, “Hit, anyone?” and then Jenks’ “They’ve got me, skipper,” in a muffled whisper, and he noticed that the hard breathing had ceased. At that he found strength and voice and jumped up. He bent over Jenks. “Where have you got it, old man?” he said, and hardly realised that it was himself speaking.

The other was lying just as before, on his back, but he had pulled his knees up convulsively and a rug had slipped off. In a flare Peter saw beads of sweat on his forehead and a white, twisted face.

He choked back panic and knelt down. He had imagined it all before, and yet not quite like this. He knew what he ought to say, but for a minute he could not formulate it. “Where are you hit, Jenks?” was all he said.

The other turned his head a little and looked at him. “Body lungs, I think,” he whispered. “I’m done, padre; I’ve seen chaps before.”

The words trailed off. Peter gripped himself mentally, and steadied his voice. “Jenks, old man,” he said. “Just a minute. Think about God you are going to Him, you know. Trust Him, will you? ’The blood of Jesus Christ, God’s Son, saveth us from all sin.’”

The dying man, moved his hand convulsively. “Don’t you worry, padre,” he said faintly; “I’ve been confirmed.” The lips tightened a second with pain, and then: “Reckon I won’t shirk. Have you got a cigarette?”

Peter felt quickly for his case, fumbled and dropped one, then got another into his fingers. He hesitated a second, and then, put it to his own lips, struck a match, and puffed at it. He was in the act of holding it to the other when Langton spoke behind him:

“It’s no good now, padre,” he said quietly; “it’s all over.”

And Peter saw that it was.

The planes did not come back. The officer in charge of the train came down it with a lantern, and looked in. “That makes three,” he said. “We can do nothing now, but we’ll be in the station in a bit. Don’t show any lights; they may come back. Where the hell were our machines, I’d like to know?”

He went on, and Peter sat down in his corner. Langton picked up the rug, and covered up the body. Then he glanced at Peter. “Here,” he said, holding out a flask, “have some of this.”

Peter shook his head. Langton came over to him. “You must,” he said; “it’ll pull you together. Don’t go under now, Graham. You kept your nerve just now come on.”

At that Peter took it, and drained the little cup the other poured out for him. Then he handed it back, without a word.

“Feel better?” queried the other, a trifle curiously, staring at him.

“Yes, thanks,” said Peter “a damned sight better! Poor old Jenks! What blasted luck that he should have got it!... Langton, I wish to God it had been me!”