Front matter (continued 6)

"He's out as usual, though, is Bumps," he continued; "for the convoys are going through all right and will be at the farm in three hours from now. Against me is that most distinguished officer Colonel Wicklow, who, as you know, is a Staff College graduate. Now, at that abode of learning they read books, and those books teach them that the way to defend a ridge is not to spread troops all along it, but to hold the passes strongly, and keep one or two reserves somewhere in rear, ready to come up to the threatened point. That, gentlemen, is what my opponent is now doing, and on his so doing I make my plan.

"Here it is. The cavalry under you, Graves—Porky remains to advise me—will start off and head straight for the western opening. Then, when they begin to shoot, and Wicklow's reserves have started to reinforce that point, as they will, thinking we're going to rush the pass, you'll turn half right and go, hard as God will let you, for the centre of the ridge, that peak there. At its foot you'll dismount, swarm up it, there'll be nothing but a picket on top—the reserve by that time will be a mile away—and having settled them, work along the ridge to the left, and come down on the western opening from above, and knock that lot out too. Then Jehu," pointing to the transport officer, "and I will bring on the carts and run them through and away to Tafelberg Farm. The guns will bang away as soon as the cavalry starts from here, their target the western opening. That's to keep up the delusion of attacking them. Now, you've got it. Get away and be off."

All but Porky saluted and hurried away. "Stand to your horses!" was shouted, and, at the sound, sleeping figures rose up from the ground and busied themselves with bridle and loosened girth. "Mount!" was called once more, followed by "Walk march!" and then suddenly "Halt!" from many voices, and the clattering mass came to a standstill.

"What the devil are they halting for?" said Graeme. "Go and see, Porky, tell them to shove on. Oh Lord, if it ain't that old idiot who's stopped them! Here's Johnson coming too," as Bumps's A.D.C. came hurrying up. "What is it, Johnson?"

"The General's compliments, sir, and Major Kinley's to command the cavalry," was the answer.

Graeme uttered an oath, and consternation was displayed on Porky's face, for here was a bombshell indeed. The latter, as usual, was the first to speak.

"Look here, old chap, I'm not for this at all. Taking on mountains with cavalry! Ain't goats, you know."

"What the hell do you mean, you fool? You never said a word just now when you heard the scheme."

"I know I didn't; but then, you see, I wasn't responsible—but Graves. It's another pair of shoes now. If it comes off, all very well; but if it don't, it's me who gets damned, not him. You know what Bumps is about cavalry."

"Oh, go to blazes! I don't act to Bumps nor anyone else. Get away to your squadron, and don't talk."

"For heaven's sake come with us, then. You see, Graeme, if you're there, you get the damning, as is only right. It's your scheme."

"Of course I'm coming. D'you think I'd let a turnip-headed ... Oh, come on. Trumpeter, my horse," and Graeme mounted and was hurrying away, when again Johnson was seen approaching.

"The General's compliments, sir," he said, "and he wishes you to stay with him. The cavalry under Major Kinley is to go on at once and..." And then the A.D.C. stopped astonished, his ears listening to a flow of language such as struck his simple soul with genuine admiration.

"You can tell your something something General," he concluded, "to draw his something something face on a something something blackboard and take a something something sponge and spit on it and——"

"Will you obey orders, sir," interrupted a quavering voice, and Royle rode up beside him. "For God's sake," reverting to pleading, as he caught Graeme's eye, "for all our sakes, don't put the General's back up."

Hector glared at him for a moment; his mouth opened and then shut with a snap.

"Very well," he said, "I'll come. Only don't blame me for what's going to happen; or rather do, if you like, I don't care," and thereupon he dismounted, and, handing his horse over to the trumpeter, walked away to where Bumps was sitting.

"Now, Colonel Graeme," said the latter affably, "we want to hear your plans; but first, I must tell you, you were wrong in proposing to lead the cavalry. As commander of a mixed force, your place is with the guns. You've told Major Kinley, I presume, what you meant to do?"

"I've tried to."

"Tried to, what do you mean? Either you have or have not, which is it?"

"I repeat, I've tried to; but my plan requires me in person to lead."

"By that you mean, I suppose, a field officer in your regiment is incapable? What do you say to that, Colonel Royle?"

"I don't know what Graeme means, sir, I'm sure, Major Kinley's a most excellent officer," answered Royle, who but yesterday had lamented Porky's total want of intelligence to Hector himself.

"I confess that is also my opinion," said Bumps, "he's an officer, with ideas, too, is Kinley, and what's more is both modest and unassuming. Always ready to learn, doesn't think he knows better than his superiors. But about your plans, what are they, Graeme?"

"To attack that ridge where it's highest," answered Hector.

"Really, and how, may I ask, charge it with cavalry?"

"That's my idea."

"Graeme, you don't, you can't mean that," from Royle. "Sir," turning to the smiling Bumps, "I can assure you this is directly contrary to my teaching."

"And mine too, Colonel."

"I meant yours, sir. Why, it was only the other day, after your last lecture on cavalry, that I had all my officers up, and impressed upon them how right you were when you said—said——" Here Royle was brought to a standstill, memory failing him.

"Say no more, Colonel, I believe you; but there are some people too clever to learn. Ah, they're off! Sit down here, Graeme, and watch. I think, possibly, in the next few minutes you may learn something, or the experience of forty-five years goes for nothing."

"A mule that had been through all the wars of Frederick still remained a mule," muttered Graeme, and, sitting down, lighted a cigarette and closed his eyes.

That disaster was imminent he knew well, but now cared nothing. Let Bumps have his silly triumph if he liked. His own plan had been right, of that he was intuitively certain, and that was all that mattered to him; it would fail, of course, as it was, but that was to be expected, Porky being in charge.

Sitting there, he could foretell, knowing that officer, what was in his mind as he rode along, almost to the words he was now uttering to Graves galloping beside him.

"Hanged if I get a telling off," he was saying, "for Graeme or anyone else; my plan's much sounder, and will pull him through, and then he'll be glad he didn't run his own rotten scheme. Look ye, Graves, we'll make for the centre of the ridge now, straight away, that'll entice those blokes away from the pass, and then we'll turn and be through it like winking. It's the same as his plan, only the other way round."

In vain did Graves, who possessed intelligence, protest. Porky was firm, and carried out his scheme, or rather the first part of it, for in the last he was not so successful.

On they headed for the ridge, Wicklow watching them through his glasses as they came, and for a moment doubt arose in his mind, soon quelled, however, for his Staff College teaching told him that cavalry do not attempt the crossing of precipitous mountains. "It's a transparent ruse," he reflected, "to draw me away from the passes, their only hope," and he called up his reserves till each entrance was guarded by close on four hundred men.

A cry arose of "Here they are!" Cartridges rattled in breech-blocks, and Wicklow's heart was joyful within him, when, a cloud of dust preceding them, a straggling mass of horsemen burst upon them. The storm broke, but on they came, for Porky was valiant and by now reckless, till at last, with guns thudding in their faces and withering fire from Maxim and rifle pouring in upon them, even he became convinced of the futility of further advance, and halted his cursing, sulky-faced regiment in the centre of the pass. A loud shout of laughter greeted them from the infantrymen looking down from the rocks on either side.

"We're in for it, Graves," he calmly observed, "but a damning is no new thing to me." Then Porky proceeded to light his pipe, and, seating himself on a stone beside the path, waited for the wrath to come.

"A pretty piece of business," said the General, as he lumbered across the veldt towards the scene of disaster, "very pretty indeed! Oh for heaven's sake keep up beside me, Colonel Royle, and stop talking to Graeme, you can do that afterwards."

"Yes, sir; very sorry, sir," gasped Royle, rushing his horse up and cannoning into the General in his haste. "oh, I beg ten thousand pardons, sir, and you were saying——"

"How the devil can I say anything when you damn near knock me over? Hold up, confound you!" pulling at his horse's mouth, as the animal skipped cleverly over the hole of an ant-bear. "Nasty clumsy brute to give a general officer. Who chose him—you?"[#]

[#] It is usual for the general and his staff, when not bringing their own horses with them, to be mounted by the cavalry regiment in the station they are visiting. Amiability is a sine qua non in the quadrupeds selected for this honour.

"No, sir, Colonel Graeme, sir——"

"Damme," roared the General, "it's always Colonel Graeme, pray, does he command the 1st Lancers or do you?"

"I do, of course, sir; but Graeme, being the second in command, I usually leave such matters to him. I thought he was to be relied on, sir; but after to-day I see——"

"I hope you do, a nice show up for your regiment, to-day's performance. Now, perhaps, you'll believe what I've always said about this officer."

"Indeed I do, sir, and if you like, sir, there are the Confidential Reports to go in soon, sir, and——"

"Do your own dirty work, Colonel," snapped the General, who found this servility even more exasperating than Graeme's insolence. "I should advise you to remember, however, that you've always cracked the fellow up till now; made him out a sort of Julius Cæsar."

"But, sir, that was before I knew, sir. Now, sir, that my eyes are opened, thanks to you, I see my mistake, and——"

"Oh, do you? Well, here we are. Sound the officers' call, Trumpeter."

"Gad, but your trumpeters want practice," he snarled, as the man, infected by the general demoralisation, blew a cracky, discordant blast, "and look there, see the way your officers are lounging up, like a lot of ducks shuffling along. For the Lord's sake, go and march 'em here yourself properly. All present? Hum, yours too, Wicklow? Sit down there, please, closer, damn it! I don't want to shout."

"Now, gentlemen—when you've finished arguing with Captain Graves, Major Kinley, thank you—I think we've had a most instructive morning, we've learnt, or I trust most of you have, how cavalry should ... not be handled. The scheme, I allow, was perhaps a little too difficult for the 'Blue'[#] commander; but even so, that's no excuse for the insane performance it has just been our privilege to witness. No attempt at scouting, no reports sent in, merely a blind, headlong rush to destruction. May I ask, Colonel Graeme, on what information you acted? As far as I know, you had not the slightest idea of what was in front of you."

[#] On field days one side is usually designated the "Blue," the other the "Red."

"There were two companies of infantry, with two guns, holding either pass. In rear, four companies in reserve," was the careless answer.

There was a murmur from the officers of Wicklow's force—the diagnosis was correct.

"Really?" said Bumps. "Stop whispering there, will you! What do you say to that, Colonel Wicklow?"

"It's correct, sir," he answered, "except that my reserves came up as soon as the attack developed; they were there in time to repel the cavalry charge."

"There you are, Graeme; four more companies than you thought. However, you've paid the penalty of disregarding my own and your Colonel's teaching, and there's no more to be said. I hope it will be a lesson to you in the future to be a little less cocksure. It's a fault which has brought many a better soldier than you to grief. And now I'll tell you what you ought to have done. First, you should have sent out patrols and scouted."

"To find out what I already knew, sir?"

"Kindly refrain from interrupting; besides, you did not know; it has just been proved. And then, having ascertained the enemy's dispositions, reported to me that the task was beyond you."

"I understood, sir, we were supposed to be on active service conditions?" said Graeme.

"So you were, sir, what of it?"

"As far as I know, sir, there are no umpires on active service." At this remark a stir of anticipation ran through the audience, despite disaster, Graeme was again not going to fail them.

"Umpires, sir, what do you mean, sir? I'm speaking of the officer who would be your senior, and to whom, consequently, it would be your duty to report."

"In which case, being my senior and on the spot, wouldn't he have made the plan and given the orders?" The stir thereupon developed into ill-concealed mirth, at sight of which Bumps's foot went down.

"I'm not here to answer foolish questions, Graeme, nor yet to argue; kindly bear that in mind. I've told you what you ought to have done, and there's an end of it. One thing more, however, I should like to say, and that is, I in no way blame Major Kinley, though it's true his action resulted in disaster. He was given an impossible task, and very rightly declined to run his head against a mountain ridge, and instead did the best he could under the circumstances. He showed initiative, at any rate—the great quality in a cavalry officer—and dash, though, perhaps, a slight want of judgment. That is all, gentlemen, good-day. You ride home with me, Colonel Royle; I wish to speak to you." The General rose, and, mounting his horse, was soon lurching away over the veldt lunchwards.

Graeme rode back alone, no one showing any inclination to accompany him. He was down now, and the strong man or animal down is a being whom all smaller creatures shun; for such is the penalty those who claim pre-eminence over their fellows have to pay if but for a moment they fail to support their claim. For though to all living creatures a lord is essential, nevertheless they hate that lord and the dominion he imposes, and, once fallen, are on him like wolves on a disabled leader. Only in the case of hereditary kingship is it different—then it is the place and not the individual to which they bow.

This came home to Graeme as he rode homewards. Yesterday—this morning even—his brother officers, though disliking and perhaps fearing him, would nevertheless have followed his lead and accepted without question his dictum on military matters; but now, thanks to a mere field day disaster, or, rather, to the utterance of a Bumps, all this had changed, and his former unbroken sequence of successes had been obliterated from their minds.

While he was thus reflecting, the clatter of hoofs sounded on the track behind him, and Wicklow rode up, stopping for a moment as he passed.

"Hullo, Graeme," he said; "rotten job they gave you this morning, no man living could have done it. Funny, though, at one time I thought you were going to pull it off, but I think my reserves might have got there in time. They hadn't started for the passes when you headed for my centre. There was only a picket of six men on top, but of course I knew you wouldn't do an unsound thing like that; besides your horses couldn't have got over."

"Supposing I'd dismounted and swarmed up, then moved along the ridge and come down on you from above?"

"Glad you didn't, it's I who'd have had the damning then—not you. Bye-bye, I'm off to lunch," and Wicklow rode on, leaving Graeme the bitterer at the knowledge of what ought to have been and had not.

A feeling of despondency came over him, a sense of futility, one of those black moods to which the self-reliant, and consequently solitary, are at times prone. What was the good of it all, he asked himself, this laborious building up of a name, which the slightest mistake of a subordinate or momentary ill-luck could destroy in a moment. Even worse, perhaps, was the crass stupidity of those by whom he was surrounded; their total inability to see matters that to his eyes were as clear as daylight. He knew there was not one of those officers present at to-day's operations who had an inkling of the motives that had prompted him to act as he had done. To them his plan had been a wild gamble, which with luck might come off, but only with luck; whilst he had known—even without the confirmation of Wicklow's words—the success of that plan had been certain, based as it was on his knowledge of human nature, which never changes and never can change.

Oh, to get away from it all, abandon this thankless profession, and leave the army to the ruin it courted by the retention in high places of such as Bumps! Then there suddenly flashed upon him the remembrance of the telegram that had been despatched in the morning, and till now forgotten; for in the concentration of purpose usual with him there was only room for one thought in his mind at a time.

A sigh of relief burst from his lips.

"Thank heaven," he muttered, "I did it; fool that I was to wait so long." And thereupon, suddenly exhilarated at the thought of speedy release, he struck spurs to his horse and rode on, until he reached his quarters, before which a soldier in uniform was standing, awaiting him.

"Hullo, Lobb," said Hector, surprised at the apparition, the man being a trooper from his own late squadron, "what are you doing here, where's Murphy?"

"Beggy pardin, sir, Murphy's 'ad a haccident; 'orse come down with 'im this morning and broke 'is arm, and the Sergeant-Major sent me to do first servant to you in 'is absence."

"Where is he?" shouted Hector.

"'Oo, Murphy, sir? In 'orspital, sir; they took 'im there strite, compound fracture, I've 'eard, sir, the bone——" But Hector was already galloping away to the hospital, with a sudden desperate anxiety in his mind.

"Murphy, did you send that telegram?" he burst out, rushing up to the bed upon which the sufferer was lying.

"Beggy pardin, sir, I——"

"Did you send it?"

"No, sir; 'ere it is," and Murphy drew a crumpled sheet of paper from under the pillow. "Very sorry, sir." But once more Hector was gone, and five minutes later had reached the telegraph office, where, pushing aside other applicants for attention, he thrust the paper beneath the grating.

"When will this reach Duikerpoort?" he demanded.

"Couldn't say," answered the clerk, with the nonchalance that a manly Colonial independence seems to demand; "perhaps to-night, perhaps to-morrow morning."

"It must get there to-night, d'you hear?"

"Oh, must it? You're in a hurry, you are! Oh, beg pardon, sir," as Graeme suddenly appeared behind him, having burst open the door marked "Private" and entered. "I'll send it off at once; it will be all right, I think, if the line's not blocked. Good-day, sir."

Hector rode slowly back to barracks, where till nightfall he wandered about aimlessly, his mind racked with this strange newborn anxiety and the impotent desire to act.

"Dinner—not going to dinner," he replied to Lobbs's reminder that the dress trumpet had sounded and the hour of eight was close at hand. "Bring me a bottle of champagne here; that's all I want. Another damnable night," he muttered, the meal of liquor consumed, "only nine now, twelve hours at least before I can get an answer. I think I'll send for my pony and spend the night on the veldt." He walked to the door, and as he did so, nine o'clock struck. Then a strange thing happened, for with the ceasing of the strokes the fever of restlessness suddenly left him, and in its place he felt perfect peace and calm. For half an hour longer he remained contentedly resting in his chair, his eyelids gradually growing heavier, and then sleepily undressing he lay down on the bed and was almost instantly asleep. Nor through the night hours did he move, but slept dreamlessly on, till a hot deluge in his face awoke him to the fact that early morning tea had arrived, and also that it was Private Lobb, and not the experienced Murphy, who had brought him that tea.

"Beggy pardin, sir," said the perspiring soldier, rushing for a towel and proceeding to mop the soaking bedclothes and incidentally Hector's face, "very sorry, sir; caught my foot; can't think 'ow it happened; 'ere's a tallygram for you, sir," and Lobb fled hastily from the room. A faint rustle of paper was heard from within and then all was silent save for the ticking of the clock.

"Lobb."

"Sir?" and in rushed the soldier. Once more he unfortunately "caught his foot," this time against the water-jug, which breaking at the impact let out a flood of water over the wooden floor.

"Beggy pardin, sir, I'm sure," began Lobb, in an agony, and then stopped, for his master was speaking to him, and at the sound of the voice and look in the eyes of the speaker the disaster was forthwith forgotten.

"Never mind that now, Lobb, but go at once and tell the Adjutant to come here, and then fetch a Cape cart. Ten minutes I give you; don't be longer," and Hector rose from his bed and sat smiling at Lobb, a smile that sent the latter flying from the room, leaving Hector alone.

Still smiling, he unfolded the paper in his hand and remained curiously regarding the charcoal-written words: "Stara dead."

CHAPTER XXI

The train rocked wearily onward through the fast-gathering darkness. The purple moorland and rocky gorges of the Great Karoo were gone, and in their place there were great rolling plains of yellow grass, swelling hill and misty blue mountain. Onward it crawled, through lines of ruined blockhouses and crumbling earthworks, relics of bygone strife, now increasing its pace, till the groan and rattle of cars swelled to a roar, now slowing down to a crawl as it clanked cautiously over a girder-bridge spanned river, or pulled up with a jerk at some lonely veldt siding.

It was a very caterpillar of a train, express though it claimed to be, and crowded with humanity, black and white, bound for garish, golden Johannesburg. Nevertheless, packed as were its other dusty compartments, there was one in which a man sat solitary, his peace undisturbed by friendly chat and the rustle of turning pages. True, more than once passengers had entered it, sat there for a while—some even venturing on conversation with its inmate—but all, after a time had left, preferring heat and lack of elbow-room elsewhere to space and the company of one not only unsociable but "strange, most strange."

For many hours now Hector Graeme had been left alone, if alone he were; for if that were so why did he talk, not as one who speaks to himself, but to someone with him, someone whose voice he could hear, though all other ears were deaf to it? And this indeed was the case, for a strange thing had come to pass, and that other voice, heard for so many years, yet hitherto impersonal, had since the morning undergone a startling change, and was now become that of Stara, lying dead some thirty miles away.

Quite suddenly, too, recognition had come to him, almost simultaneously with the receipt of the wire telling him of her death. Since then they had spoken together without ceasing, and, tedious though the long journey might be to others, to him there had been no tedium, but a wild, mad happiness and gratitude.

Dead; yes, she was dead, but only her body; for her spirit lived on, and from now would be with him always, watching over him, guiding him on his path, as in the dreams he had dreamed. Never would he be in doubt again, never at a loss as he had been sometimes before; for death had rent the obstructing veil of flesh, and the soul at last was free to come to him where and whensoever he should call.

How simple henceforth it would all be. He had only to ask and be told, for he had already proved that, by much questioning on points to which he knew the answer, and could have shouted with delight at the accuracy with which those questions were solved. Only on one point was she dumb, of her death she refused to speak, and, press as he might, no voice came back in reply.

Still, he would soon know, very soon now, and together they would stand looking down on the husk her spirit had left, and he would tell her; for she would understand, as living she never would have understood, how he had wearied of that husk and longed for the flesh-obscured soul.

He stretched his cramped limbs, and, rising, went over to the window and looked out. The train was slackening speed.

"Are we here, Stara?" he asked, and back flashed the answer, "Yes."

"Duikerpoort! Duikerpoort!" a voice was heard calling in the darkness, and obeying the summons the train stopped for a moment, and then, creaking and groaning, moved slowly forward once more.

The lighted cars glided by till all had passed; red and green tail-lights grew smaller and then vanished; the roar died to a murmur and was stilled. A drowsy porter passed, his lantern swinging as he went, and then he too was gone, and Hector Graeme stood alone, with the wide-eyed planets above him and the silent immensity of the African veldt around.

No one to meet him, thank God; he would have his walk alone. Ten mile trudge though it was, it did not matter; he was fresh and strong as never before, and Stara was there to keep him company.

"Come, Stara," he called, and at her response he started on his way, swiftly striding along the track, deep in sand though it was.

Mile after mile he covered, insensible to fatigue or hunger, though he had fasted since the night before; for he, like dead Stara, was nearly all spirit now, and for a time unconscious of fleshly claims. At last, far away, a speck of light shone through the black, and the man laughed happily, his outstretched hand guiding his silent companion's gaze to it.

"Home, Stara, at last," he cried, "the home where your body is lying. Tell me where, in what room?" She answered: "My old room, dear; you know it; hasten." Together they ran on, and did not stop till they stood before a farm-house, now as still and silent as one of its inmates.

"Stara, keep with me; follow me close," and Hector's fist crashed against the door, a muttered exclamation from within coming in answer. A flicker of light appeared, the sound of footsteps was heard, and then the door opened. Richard Selbourne stood before them, his eyes searching the darkness without.

"Who are you," he said, "and what do you want at this hour? This is no time——"

"It's we, Dick, Stara and I."

Richard fell back, with terror at his heart; then came recognition, and with it a hatred that banished fear.

"You," he said, "you?"

"We, Dick, Stara and I. We've run all the way here. Oh, don't stand staring there, but let us in," and Hector pressed forward.

"Damn you! Never!" began Richard, but Hector was past, easily thrusting the other, a man with twice his strength, aside, and was standing in the hall, his hand on the staircase rails.

"Take me to her," he said, "or I'll go alone."

Richard stared at him for a moment, measuring Hector's strength with his. "A weak creature," he thought; "he took me unawares just now; that was all. I could kill him easily enough, and, God knows, I've prayed for the chance; but yet, now that it's come, I can't—not with her lying dead above.

"Follow me," he said, and led the way to a small room, called by courtesy a study, but used by its master indiscriminately for the keeping of guns, fishing-tackle, and seeds.

"Untidy as ever, Dick, I see. Look, Stara, the same old mess."

Selbourne wheeled round, his grey eyes searching the other's face.

"Do you wish me to believe you mad," he said curtly, "is that your coward's refuge?"

Hector stared vacantly. "Mad, mad!" he repeated, "you may be, I'm not. Mad, what do you mean?" a look of anger appearing in his eyes.

"You must be to come here, I should think. Why have you done it?"

"You always were a dense fool, Dick. What do you think I've come for? To see the body, of course."

"To see the woman you murdered, you mean."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't? Then I'll tell you. My sister died last night by her own hand, why, you know, I only guess; but this I do know, that her death lies at your door. Of your villainy in making love to her when you had a wife at home I won't speak. She knew it, it seems, and I'm not going to blame the dead. But of the other, of the cowardly abandonment to her fate of a woman you professed to love, of that I will, Colonel Graeme."

"Say what you like, if it pleases you, Dick. I shan't defend myself."

"I intend to. It seems—I got that much out of my wife—Stara wrote you a letter five days ago, and that letter asked for a wire in answer. Even the most callous, I should have thought, would have sent something, but you did not. With that letter in your pocket, probably unread, you spent those five days loafing about barracks, too damned lazy even to walk to the telegraph-office and send the answer which would have saved a life."

"Right as usual, Dick; go on."

"For three days I had boys waiting at the Duikerpoort office, and last night she went there herself, and stayed till the place was shut. Then she came back and an hour afterwards was found on the veldt—dead."

"That was fine of you, Stara." The words were only breathed, but Richard heard them, heard too the unmistakable ring of gladness in Hector's voice. At the sound, decency and respect for the dead above him vanished, and in their place the primitive overmastering desire to kill prevailed. He stretched out his hand to a drawer, clutched something, and in one more second Graeme would have been lying dead, his spirit free to wander by Stara's side, but in that second a woman stood between them, and her eyes, dulled with tears, were lifted reproachfully to her husband's face.

"Dick," she said, "is this a time for quarrelling? Think, Dick."

"Let me go, Mary, such as he are better dead. My God! if you'd only heard."

"I did ... and ... he isn't worth it, Dick." She turned and faced Graeme, who was standing with a rapt look on his face, apparently unconscious of their presence.

"What do you want?" she said with level voice and eyes hard as flint.

Hector's wandering wits came back; for a moment he stood regarding her, and then, recognition dawning, held out his hand. Mary drew back, sweeping her skirts behind her.

Hector laughed, faintly amused. "So you're against me too, are you? You're as dense as Dick. Well, well, the battle's begun already, you and I, Stara, against the world."

"I repeat, what do you want?"

"To see her."

"He shall not, I say. Mary, if you've any respect for Stara's memory, you'll not sanction this outrage. Think what this man's done, think what Stara used to be and is now."

"Hush, Dick." Mary's eyes were fixed on Graeme's face and, more observant than her husband, she saw something there that made her hesitate; for the moment the hatred in her heart was lessened.

"If ... if I let you see her."

"Alone?"

"Mary!"

"Dick, I beg of you dear, to leave this to me. Alone, if you wish it, Colonel Graeme, for five minutes only."

"Half an hour."

There was a pause, while Mary's eyes rested unwaveringly on Graeme's face.

"Very well, half an hour. Will you promise me to go then?"

"Yes."

"Come then," and Mary passed out, leading the way upstairs to a closed door, where she stopped. "In there," she said. "I trust you," and left him.

* * * * *

"Stara! we're here, your spirit and I come to say good-bye to the body they're burying to-morrow. It's only for a few minutes; I mustn't stay. They won't let me, Stara, for they say I killed you. But I know better than that, for your spirit has told me the truth, and I honour you for it and adore you, Stara. Wiser than all, you knew that love for a body must die, but love for the spirit lives for ever. I wanted your soul, and you, knowing it, have given."

He paused, crept closer, and stood looking down.

"You beautiful thing," he whispered, "yet, beautiful as you are, I shall be glad when you're hidden away out of sight in the ground for then I shall see the soul whose voice only I now can hear. When will that be, my Star, when will that soul be revealed? To-morrow, yes, to-morrow it shall be, over your grave, when the sun is dead too, and all are gone. Promise me it now, dear, let those dead lips speak for the last time."

"Speak!" He stood towering above her, command in the eyes fixed on the rigid mouth. A gust of wind blew, the lamp flickered, and over the still face a shadow hovered and was gone.

Then through the silent house a mad cry went ringing; the two waiting below started apart, with terror in their eyes; and above a man was on his knees beside the bed, with a dead woman held to his heart, and the scent of crushed lilies rising to his brain.

The minutes passed, and still he knelt there, holding her, and then, slowly raising his head, gazed into the stiffly-smiling face.

"Good-bye, body beloved," he said. "Good-bye, earthly love, and welcome now the spiritual." He rose from his knees, and stood erect, one hand laid on the cold breast, the other raised aloft to heaven.

"Unseen soul of Stara," he breathed, "hear me now. May God's curse strike me, may my limbs rot and wither on my body, may the devil burn and tear me in the Hereafter, if but for a moment my love shall stray from you!"

He stopped, his eyes alight with ecstasy, then, bending down, kissed the dead lips once, and went swiftly out into the star-gemmed night.

CHAPTER XXII

The red glow of a dying sun framed in masses of angry storm-cloud; a group of dark-clad figures standing in a roughly-walled enclosure, in their midst a white-clothed priest. Around, the sunlit veldt and mountain mocking the shortness of human life, their own tenure, though but a span, an immortality compared with that of mankind.

"I am the resurrection and the life." The high-pitched voice rose on the evening air, chanting words that had been millions of times repeated, yet always sounding new, for of death they form the song, and neither Azrael nor Eros can ever weary humanity. Apart from the throng, close to the grave's brink, a man was standing. Dully the words beat on his brain, but conveyed no meaning, for physical endurance had reached its limit, and understanding for the time was dead.

Vaguely he listened, wondering what it all might mean, now and again raising his eyes to the chasm's far side, where stood the chanting priest, and beyond him the group of black-clothed figures. What was he doing here, what were these people doing here, and this dark hole at his feet, what was its meaning? Vacantly he looked around, seeking for something to lay hold of, some landmark to link the present with the past, but in vain, all were but as symbols on an ever-flying wheel, seen for a second, gone, seen again and lost once more.

Then for a space the whirling circle stopped, and the figures came to a rest and stood steady before his eyes. Ah, there were two he recognised, a man and a woman, the former rigid-faced and stern, the latter weeping. Yes, he knew them; they were Richard Selbourne and Mary, but why was she crying? There was no reason for it that he could see. He looked hard at them, trying to attract their notice, but in vain, almost it seemed as though they would not see. Ah last Richard looked up, met his eyes full, and without recognition lowered his own again. "Cut me, intentionally too, what, in God's name for, what have I done? Confound that other fellow too, with them, staring like that; what the devil does he find in me, a stranger, to interest him? Never takes his eyes off me, damn him! Looks like a doctor, well, if you are, go back to your pills, you fool, and leave me alone. I want none of your drugs."

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" Ah, he recognised that. They were burying someone then, and this hole at his feet was a grave. But whose, and what, had it to do with him? Faintly curious, he moved forward and peered down. Yes, there was a coffin, a name on it too, if he could but read:

STARA.

Then back rushed remembrance; he knew, and laughed aloud. Everybody looked up; the man with the deep-set eyes made a half step forward; Mary clutched her husband's arm; and the priest, scandalised, stopped, and then went hurriedly on: "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes dust to dust."

Graeme's head nodded slowly in approval, for here were words of sense at last, little as the mumbling fool that uttered them knew it. To him they were but a formula, the fine words spoken by the hero of some stage drama, the finale bringing down the curtain to a burst of hysterical applause. He alone knew how true they were, and that in death lay no sting and in the grave no victory, but defeat, and in an hour from now the proof of that truth would be given him.

The throng melted away, and moved slowly homeward across the veldt. Two men approached, spade in hand, glanced at Graeme, and then set swiftly to work. The dull thud of earth on wood sounded from below, then earth on other earth, till the yawning chasm had gone and only a brown scar remained.

One final stamp on the loosened soil, and they too, shouldering their tools, went homeward, and Graeme was alone in the fast-falling night. The sun had long since died—to be born again in another world—and over his fiery western grave a pall of blue storm-cloud hung, rapidly rising and spreading over the heavens. The wind moaned fretfully, and the low mutter of thunder came from the distant mountains.

The hour was at hand, its herald the tempest, the birth-pangs of earth in travail of a soul.

A sudden fearful excitement shook Graeme. His knees knocked together, he rocked and swayed, and then the mood passed, and, steady once more, he strode forward till he stood over the lifeless body below, his livid face raised to the darkened sky.

"Stara!" he called, but only the thunder of an outraged God responded. "Stara! Stara!" he shouted again, and then stopped, for the answer had come.

A flash of blue light, a rending crash overhead, and, to the swell of harp and organ, the heavens yawned slowly asunder, and the dead woman, white fire rolling around her, stood looking down upon him. For a moment he remained, with face lit up and hands outstretched towards her, and then, with one loud triumphant cry of "Stara!" fell forward on his face, quivered for a moment, and was still.

Almost as quick as the lightning-flash, from behind the wall at the far side of the cemetery a man came running up, followed slowly and seemingly unwillingly by another.

"Quick, Selbourne," said the first, "fetch a Cape cart; look sharp, man, the storm will be on us in a minute. God! did you ever see anything like that last flash?"

Richard came slowly up to where the speaker was kneeling, with Graeme's head against his shoulder, while he was forcing the neck of a small phial between the clenched teeth.

"What's the matter," he said coolly, "lightning struck him? If so, he ought to be dead. Is he?"

"Nothing of the kind; he's as alive as you or I."

"What's wrong, then?"

"I don't quite know—fit of some sort, I should say."

"Leave him to get over it then. Rain will bring him to. I'm going, I was a fool to stay, don't know why I did, except that you made such a point of it."

The other looked up, frowning. "Look here, Selbourne, what your quarrel is with this fellow I don't know, and don't want to; but I'm a doctor, and if he's the biggest blackguard under the sun, he's my patient now, and I don't leave him. You go if you like, but in common humanity order the Cape cart."

"I'll ... see ... him ... rotting first."

"See here, Richard Selbourne, I'm a good friend of yours, and I think I've shown it, haven't I? I wasn't in time, I know, for ... but that was not my fault, I came as quick as I could, and there was nothing to be done, but you know what I risked over signing the certificate as I did."

"I do, and you've Mary's and my eternal gratitude, Lees ... but——"

"Show it now, then, by fetching that cart."

"If you knew what I do, Lees, you'd leave him here to die."

The other laughed. "Don't be a fool, Selbourne," he said.

"Where do you propose to take him? If it's my house you're thinking of, you can save yourself the trouble of a journey, I warn you."

"I'm not, I'll take him to the hotel, and get him away to-morrow or the day after. You shan't see him again, I give you my word."

Richard rose from the wall on which he was sitting.

"On that understanding then," he said, "I'll send a cart, but don't ask me to touch the fellow, because I won't. You and the boy can lift him, I suppose, or shall I send a man?"

"The boy and I can manage all right; he's light enough, poor devil. Please be quick, Selbourne."

The latter walked slowly away, leaving Dr. Lees looking down on the still unconscious figure in his arms.

"Good thing I was watching you, my friend," he muttered. "I knew when I saw you at the funeral you couldn't last much longer. I wonder what it all means, and what you saw just now? for you did see something, I know that, and probably will to the end of your days. You'll be an interesting study in the future, Colonel Graeme, or I'm much mistaken. 'Stara,' you called, and that was her name, poor girl; she poisons herself, and my friend Dick, the most amiable fellow I know, hates you, hates you so much that he'd leave you here to die. For you would die of exposure if I left you now; as it is, you'll be pretty bad for a day or two. Still, I think I've got the story all right; it's an old enough one, God knows. Oh yes, you're a bad lot, Colonel, right enough, but it's possible you're not quite so much to blame as they think. I doubt if you're quite ... responsible; not mad—I'm sure of that—but not quite responsible. Ah, the cart at last! Hi, you, this way; fasten the mules to the wall here, then come and help lift the Baas. Easy, that's right now." Together they lifted the light figure into the Cape cart, and, Lees still holding it in his arms, drove away to the Spring Bok Hotel, Duikerport, the mules shying and plunging at the lightning playing on the rocks around.

CHAPTER XXIII

"Oh, do hurry up, for heaven's sake, Graves; it's past three, and we're playing in the second chukker."

"Don't fidget me, but come in and sit down. Throw that dog out of the chair;" whereupon Captain Annesley, white-breeched and brown-booted, entered his friend's room, and having lifted the sleeping dachshund, and placed him carefully on his knee, sat down, his eyes resting morosely on the scantily-clad figure before him.

"We'll be late," he observed.

"You've said that before. I'm shoving on all I know. There's a drill-book on the table there; take it and read it for once. It will do you good."

Annesley declined the monstrous proposition.

"Drill-books," he remarked, "are for those with no ideas of their own."

"That's why I suggest your reading it, Worm, but that ain't yours, that's Graeme's. I recognise the brand; there's enough about, too, goodness knows, of the same sort."

"Madder every day," continued Annesley. "He pow-wowed the squadron this morning in a white top-hat. A—white—top-hat! I'm not lying, Graves."

"I saw him, it's sickening. Lord! what a second in command, or rather C.O., for Royle's only a dummy. I thought too, after that last show-up before Bumps, he meant putting his foot down. Talked enough about it, but he ain't done it. Graeme wins another silly battle or two, and it's worse than ever. He daren't say "Damn it" to him now. Cavalry officer in a white top-hat, God!"

"Funny thing, the men never laughed. They did when they saw him first, but once he began to talk they shut up, and sat listening with their mouths open; so did Fanshawe and I, made us think, Graves, no end, felt I'd like to be—Napoleon."

"You—Napoleon?"

"Well, why not? Every soldier, you know, carries a field-marshal's what-you-may-call-it in his ruddy——"

"Shut up, for God's sake, you make me ill, Worm."

"Think he's really mad, Graves? Pa says he is."

"Pa?"

"Pa says—his room's next to Graeme's, you know—that he hears him talking to himself at night. Damn sick about it Pa is, says it stops him sleeping. It's ever since he came back three weeks ago. Where did he go, d'you know?"

"You can see it in the leave-book, if you're interested, I'm not."

"Graves, I believe it's a girl's put Graeme wrong."

"You've not the slightest reason for thinking such a thing, Worm, Graeme never speaks to a woman."

"I know, but, all the same, I'm sure of it. What did he go on leave for then, why does any fellow go on leave in this cursed country, except he's after a girl, or looking for one? If that's so, and he's taken the knock, I'm sorry for him; must be damnable to be chucked by a girl. Gad, if Fanny were to play it low down on me, I'd ... I don't know what I would do, Graves. You've heard me speak of Fanny, haven't you?"

"I have, many times. Are you coming to polo?"

"Yes, wait a minute though; there's something else I wanted to tell you, only it went out of my head, talking of Graeme. I had a letter from Johnson, at Cape Town, this morning, and he says the Mahonga show is all on again, and we shall be for it."

"Johnson's a fool, always spreading some shave. Come on, if you are coming, that is." The pair went out, and mounting their waiting ponies rode off to the polo ground.

Johnson, however, though a fool, as Graves justly observed, proved himself on this occasion a true prophet, for next day into the ante-room—at the time crowded with officers drinking afternoon tea—burst Porky, pregnant with great news. For a moment he stood surveying them, his face bright with anticipation of the unwonted delights of an attentive audience, and then, as they, as usual, paid no heed to his presence, he let loose the torrent fighting for escape within him.

"I've news," he said, in a would-be indifferent manner, but again no one heeded.

"I've news," he roared, "listen, damn you!"

"Don't shout, Porky," said a voice, "what's the matter?"

"Matter, why war's the matter," and at the word "war" a hush fell, and everybody looked up. "Bloody war!" he continued, having an audience at last, "and this gallant corps is for it, whether or no. The Mahongas have risen, and are playing hell all round, so sharpen your swords and spears, my sons, and make your last will and testament."

"It's a lie," said Graves crossly, from his corner.

"It's no lie, it's all right, I tell you; no damned shaves or leg-pulls this time. I had it straight from Cape Town ten minutes ago."

"It's begun, thank God," muttered a voice, and Graeme rose and made his way out, his departure being unnoticed in the general uproar.

"And I thank God too," said young Fanshawe, overhearing the latter part of the sentence, "that it's you, and neither Porky nor Royle who will run the show in this same bloody war."

BOOK III

CHAPTER XXIV

A wild December morning was breaking over the great British camp. Masses of storm-cloud swept overhead, the wind howled, and gusts of rain and sleet beat against the black streaming tents. In the broad lanes and square parade grounds, deep in mud and patched with rapidly-widening pools, arms and accoutrements could be seen lying, thrown down by their owners, and left to rot and rust at will.

Some distance away from the camp rose a cluster of huge marquees, their flags of white marked with the red cross of Geneva proclaiming them to be the field hospital, and towards them, phantom-like in the drear half-dark of morning, an apparently never-ending procession was moving. Swaying ambulance waggons and creaking litters—their canvas bottoms red-stained and dripping—toiled through the slush of the road, their path impeded by a throng of limping, maimed, and cursing pedestrians.

The heart of Surgeon-General Macpherson, standing at the main entrance of the hospital, grew heavy as he watched, and his face dark with shame and grief, for never before in a life of more than sixty years had he seen a sight like this.

"Poor old England," he muttered, "you're done at last," and then suddenly his spare form stiffened, and his lips twisted into a smile, for a young officer was approaching; and to Macpherson, and such as he, the maintaining of a stiff upper lip before juniors is a rule of life never to be forgotten, no matter how imminent and certain disaster.

"Hullo, Newton," he said, "what's the matter with you now? Can't have the A.D.C.'s going sick, you know, or who's to run the army?"

"I'm all right, sir," answered the new-comer, touching his cap; "it's not about myself I've come to see you, but Lord Harford, Sir Archibald wants to know how he is."

Macpherson looked away, for despite his efforts the mask for a second had slipped, though this was the question he had known was coming, and one which would have to be answered, not once, but many times that day. At that moment he would have given the half of his small worldly possessions to be no longer Surgeon-General Macpherson, Principal Medical Officer to the British Forces, but instead a junior officer—nay, even a private soldier—in one of his beloved Highland regiments. Still, there was no use burking it, and he answered:

"Lord Harford died two hours ago, Newton; he was shot through the lungs; there was no chance of saving him from the first."

The boy's face fell, and an expression of dismay, almost of terror, was displayed on it.

"Dead," he repeated, "the Commander-in-Chief dead? Good God, sir, what an utter damnable mess we're in!"

Macpherson made no answer, for of a truth there was none to be made. They were in a mess, such a one as probably no British army had been in before, save perhaps in the earlier days of the Peninsular War. Then, however, a great leader was there to guide them, one in whom all trusted, but now it seemed that there was no one, for he in whose hands their destiny had lain was dead. For the great war that had been prophesied for years past by countless Cassandras had come upon England at last, and as always, prophecies as to its course and method had been totally false. A guarding fleet, the Balaams had declared, lured away, then the horrors of invasion, the enemy successful at first, but in the end gloriously repulsed, the British lion having awakened from his slumbers. But here there had been no invasion—at least, not on the enemy's part—nor any thought of such yet, though a hundred thousand citizens, with guns and uniform, designated the Hearts of Oak—once known as the Territorials, before then as the Volunteers—were waiting on the coasts to receive them, patriotic rage inflaming their breasts. No, the fleet had not been decoyed away, or destroyed; on the contrary, it had done its work right well, and what remained of the enemy's fleet was now safely shut up in blockaded ports.

Then a strange thing happened, and yet perhaps not strange, but as certain to take place as the sun to shine in the heavens—England herself determined to invade.

What does our Army exist for? This is the question invariably propounded to a listening House by the merchant, lawyer, or doctor on appointment to the charge of Army fortunes, and equally invariably answered in accordance with party dictates, which demand at all costs retention in Office. Not for aggression, most emphatically not, he shouts, but for defence, and this being so, large numbers are but a useless expense and conscription an unnecessary hardship. Never can there be any question of England's invading a Continental or other power, he goes on to declare, and party dogs and Little Englanders bow-wow applause, and a slothful country smiles well pleased.

In this, as in many other political matters, he lies, for an army exists to fight whenever and wherever it is called upon so to do, and the military history of our own and other island nations is a story of successful invasion—from Crecy to South Africa it is one and the same story. For history, as the record of human nature, can never lie, and must always repeat itself, and a nation, unless degenerate, demands the striking of blows, not the mere waiting to receive them. And so England, flushed with success, began to seethe and clamour for more; but alas, of the Army there was only a handful, and the Hearts of Oak, by special decree, existed merely for defence against invasion.

A deadlock ensued, and Europe began to laugh. Under the sting of its laughter fury arose, and with it clamorous demands for an expedition, the greater now, because the balance was beginning to fall against England. The enemy had annexed countries she was bound by treaty to defend, and with a lengthy coastline thus secured, was hard at it building warships and repairing those disabled. It was but a question of months now, and England's fleet would be overwhelmed by numbers.

The fury increased, mass meetings were held, and the Government rocked where it sat. Expedition or resignation was demanded. Naturally the former won, and a special decree was passed by which the Hearts of Oak became liable for Service abroad. In vain they protested, deserted even; it was all no good, for public sympathy was against them, and in a few weeks a heterogeneous force of soldiers, sailors, and Hearts of Oak was packed on transports and sailed away to war.

In chief command was Lord Harford, a man of remarkable ability as an organiser, though notoriously deficient as a leader in the field, and assisting him as Chief of the Staff was Sir Thomas Moleyns, also a man of ability. His talents, however, were not those of a soldier, but rather of a political intriguer, his present eminence being mainly owing to the assistance given by him to the War Minister in a recent difficulty connected with the public discovery of a shortage of Government stores.

He was a strong, pushing person, however, and fully meant having the control of the present expedition, an aim which the age and infirmities of the Commander-in-Chief rendered comparatively easy of attainment. Contrary to expectation, the landing of the army was unopposed, and, that having been carried through without a hitch, the force marched on unmolested for three days, the few hostile cavalry scouts met with invariably retiring before its advance.

Almost it seemed as though the enemy invited invasion, which indeed was the case, it having exceeded their most sanguine expectations, and consequently the strictest orders had been issued to allow the British to come on unopposed till well out of reach of their ships.

At home, however, this was not realised, and the news of the successful debarkation aroused much enthusiasm. An unopposed occupation of the capital was now confidently predicted, and preparations were already in progress, and festivities organised to celebrate the event.

Their joy was but short-lived, the next news to hand being that of a crushing disaster.

On the morning of the fourth day, the march was suddenly brought to a halt by the tidings of a large force in position on a wooded ridge ahead, completely barring the road by which they were moving to the north. To the same message was added another to the effect that General Sir Hector Graeme, commanding the cavalry division, had taken over charge of the advanced guard, and was now preparing to attack. This having been telephoned on to Moleyns, he at once directed General Graeme to desist from his preparations, and, further, to recall all his advanced scouts and patrols. His ostensible object in so doing was to lull the enemy into security; his real one being the determination to thwart a man for whom he had a whole-hearted dislike, and also, should things go wrong, the securing of a scapegoat on whom he could lay the blame.[#] Moleyns was a far-seeing man, and he knew, moreover, that Graeme's downfall would be most gratifying in high places, particularly to his friend and patron, Mr. Quibble, a Manchester solicitor, at that time Secretary of State for War.

[#] This, it may be remarked, was a scheme played with success on many occasions by generals during the time of the South African War.

This message sent, Moleyns issued orders for the advanced guard to fall back on the main body, the whole army being further directed to camp one mile north of the village of Rass. This done, and plans drawn up and despatched to the various divisions, he sought out Lord Harford, whom he found seated in a motor car some miles in rear, and propounded a scheme for attack to be carried out that night; and, as usual, he gained his point.

Night came; the attack was made by a third of the whole force, the result being a crushing defeat.

Ignorant of the country, whole divisions went astray, and wandered aimlessly about in the dark, and when eventually the bulk of the force reached the place appointed, the night was suddenly illumined by the glare of searchlights and star shells, and a tempest of lead and iron burst upon the huddled mass. In vain did the foremost ranks turn to fly, the pressure from behind was too great, and though at last they did manage to get away and stream back into camp in the small hours of the morning, it was as a rabble they reached it—a rabble, moreover, shorn of at least half its numbers, the Commander-in-Chief himself being mortally wounded by a chance bullet.

This reverse by itself was bad enough, but worse still was the news sent in by the Cavalry leader—who, despite orders, had not withdrawn his patrols, but instead sent out more and farther ahead—to the effect that a huge body of hostile troops was coming up from the north, while from the east another large column was rapidly advancing.

Lieutenant Newton, therefore, A.D.C. to Sir Archibald Townsend, was but stating a fact in describing the situation as a "mess"; indeed, it was considerable odds on the capture or annihilation of the British army within the next forty-eight hours.

Meanwhile two other officers had joined the pair, bent on the same errand as the first. "Poor old Harford!" said one on hearing the news, "this is what comes of having an Office man as Chief of the Staff. I suppose he'll run the show now. Lord help us! Who's the nominal head, though, it's your fellow, ain't it, Newton?"

"No, it isn't, worse luck; it's Lieut.-General Sir Hector Graeme, better known as Mad Jack. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it, friend Caldwell."

"Thank ye, Newton. I've no wish to be sick."

"That's no way to speak of a general officer, Caldwell, let alone the Commander-in-Chief," said Macpherson, his rugged face red with anger. "Man, but I've a devilish good mind to clap ye under arrest, Sir Archibald's A.D.C. though ye be."

"I beg your pardon, sir," answered Caldwell sullenly. "I shouldn't have said that, but my family and I have special reasons for hating this General Graeme."

They were all silent; the new Commander-in-Chief's matrimonial differences were well known.

"That may be, Caldwell," said Macpherson at last, "but those are private matters, and best kept to yourself. Before me, at all events, ye'll kindly remember Sir Hector Graeme is your superior officer, and as such to be spoken of with respect."

"It's salvation this, a godsend, no less," said the third officer, who hitherto had taken no part in the conversation; "we'll be in the capital in a week now." Everyone turned to stare at the speaker, a somewhat quaint-looking youth, with long hair and a uniform deviating from the regulation pattern.

"And who may you be, young sir?" said Macpherson. "I thought I knew most of the A.D.C.'s, but yours is a new face to me."

"My name's Glover, sir; I'm Sir Hector's A.D.C. Hulbert went sick three days ago, and I got his place."

"Might have known it from his clothes and hair," muttered Caldwell. "They all get like that; Hulbert was just the same. Pick it up from him, I suppose; even his orderlies look like Merry Andrews. Gad, if I were Commander-in-Chief, I'd soon——"

"I beg yer pardon, Mr. Caldwell."

"Nothing, sir. I should like to know, though, what Glover means by salvation."

"The man's quite right to stand up for his General, Caldwell."

"It's not only because I'm that, sir," answered Glover, with sudden animation, "it's because I, and all who have been under him, know what he can do. Oh, I know it's said he's only fought against savages hitherto, but, all the same, savages though they were, the Mahongas were giving us a pretty bad time till the Coney's Drift affair. Precious little thanks he got for it too, only abuse from the Radicals, and the name of Butcher Graeme. It was a bloody business, I own, but that's his way, and in my opinion the right way too. Anyhow, it finished the war; the Mahongas hadn't a kick left in them after that. There was his work in Georgistan, too——"

"Tell us about the ghost, Glover," interrupted Newton, yawning.

"Ghost, what do you mean, Newton?" asked Macpherson.

"Surely you've heard the yarn, sir? General Graeme's supposed to keep a tame spook, which he consults before fighting a battle. It's common talk, sir; I thought everyone knew."

Macpherson looked at Glover, despite himself, a Highlander's interest in the subject gleaming in his eyes.

"A lie, I suppose, like most of the gossip about him," he said. "Eh, Glover?" But the boy hesitated, at a loss what to say.

"There's no ghost, sir," he said at length, "at least, neither I nor any one else I know has seen it."

"I should think not," broke in Caldwell, temper and prudence going together. "The story's on a par with the rest of the humbug he and his gang love to surround themselves with. Thank the Lord, I say, I'm only a straightforward soldier's A.D.C., not a ruddy Jack o' the Green. Why... What the devil's up, Newton, seen the gho——?" He finished the rest of the sentence inside his helmet, which an unseen hand had suddenly banged down over his eyes—Caldwell had become what is vulgarly known as "bonneted."

"Jack o' the Green," he heard a harsh voice say. "Who calls the bloody Commander-in-Chief a Jack o' the Green? Mutiny, mutiny! String him up, old Clan na Gael! Scots wha hae! Where's a rope?"

With a wrench, Caldwell tore off the muffling headpiece, and stood staring, for before him, with his wild eyes gleaming through a shock of grey hair, stood the man of whom they had been speaking. On his head was his usual white top-hat, a covering which no orders could induce him to discard, and bound around it a green scarf. A sheepskin coat, dyed red, hung on his wasted body, a common worsted muffler of orange and green was wound round his scraggy neck, the costume being completed by breeches of yellow leather and long india-rubber boots. Sign of orthodox uniform there was none; indeed, had Sir Hector Graeme fallen into the enemy's hands in his present attire, his instant execution as a civilian in arms would have been amply justified by the rules governing modern warfare.

His had been a somewhat chequered career during the last fifteen years, short-lived bursts of fame alternating with lengthy periods of obscurity. First brought into notice by the affair, already alluded to, at Coney's Drift, where, taking advantage of his senior's absence for the day, he had collected such force as he could lay hands on, and with them fallen on and practically annihilated the Mahongas' main army, he had signalised his victory by such subsequent outspoken criticism of his superiors as had ensured his speedy supersession from further command.

True, before this had happened, his promotion to the rank of Major-General had been wired out from home, but he was given plainly to understand that no further advancement would be his; and thenceforth, by most, his military career was regarded as finished. So undoubtedly it would have been, had not hostilities broken out five years later in Georgistan, and, after a succession of reverses, the papers began to clamour for the despatch to the scene of General Graeme. For some time the demand was ignored, but, the reverses continuing, he was eventually sent out, and entrusted with the command of the Lines of Communication, in which capacity it was thought he would have no chance of making himself conspicuous. Fortune, however, favoured Hector, in the shape of a fierce attack on a post in which he happened to be resting for the night, and not only did he repel that assault, but, following up the retiring enemy, completely routed them, although they were double his strength in numbers. Probably owing to the fact that this was the first British success since the war's commencement, Hector's name, as a saviour, was blazoned forth on the placards of every evening paper, and so great became the clamour for his advancement that reluctantly the authorities placed him in command of the cavalry division. This division—a failure hitherto—straightway began to harry and destroy, their movements being conducted with such energy and ferocity that in a short time the mere sight of a horseman would send the Georgistan warriors scuttling hurriedly away to their hills.

For these services he was made Knight Commander of the Bath, and, on the termination of the war, was given the command of one of the great Indian Presidencies. Here, however, disaster overtook him; for shortly after his appointment a certain member of the British Parliament made his appearance, and proceeded to preach sedition to the natives living in Hector's district. Graeme had been given the strictest orders to refrain from interfering with this person, and for some weeks he ignored his presence, though the effect of Mr. Belch's words on the ill-balanced native mind was daily becoming more apparent.

Unfortunately for both, however, Hector one day happened to be walking through the bazaar, accompanied by his A.D.C. and orderly, and, coming upon the orator haranguing the mob, stopped to listen. For some time he stood there, till at length the man perceived him, and, goaded to fury at the sight of his country's uniform, commenced a tirade not only against the army but against His Majesty the King. Now, devoid of most human feelings as Hector was, being filled with an unreasoning hatred and contempt for his fellows, there was yet one contradictory trait in his character, and that was a great veneration for his Sovereign. Hearing the King's name bawled forth in a native bazaar, he was seized with sudden rage, and moved forward. Calling on his A.D.C. and orderly to follow him, he charged through the mob, and seizing the now terrified Belch, bore him to a shop hard by, where, with the aid of the other two, he proceeded to tar and feather him. Not till the work was thoroughly completed did he release the fellow, after which, thanks to a liberal use of their fists, the three made their way through the crowd, and though somewhat battered, reached home in safety.

Thereupon ensued a lively time at Headquarters. Cable upon cable poured in, some from individuals unknown to Hector, of a congratulatory nature, others from high quarters, demanding instant explanations. The former he tore up contemptuously—he had no wish for the approval of his fellow-men—the latter he answered in a letter couched in official terms, to the effect that, thanks to him, Mr. Belch being now quite black, was more wholly one with his friends; and as regarded the feathering, that, he considered, improved the man's personal appearance. He concluded by announcing his intention of burning the native city, now in an uproar.

Further cables followed in quick succession, suspending, threatening, and finally entreating, but to no purpose. Hector continued his preparations for destruction.

At the eleventh hour His Majesty himself intervened. A telegram was received making known his pleasure to Hector, whereupon he at once ordered the troops, already in position round the city, back to barracks, and he himself started for England. Here he entered Parliament, where he soon became a very terror to the War Minister, a member of his own—nominal—party, exposing many things, and piercing through all shufflings and evasions. But his animosity was mainly directed against the Territorial scheme—as it was then known—his crowning indiscretion being an address, delivered to a regiment of these warriors drawn up for inspection before the Mansion House.

"My dear fellow," the War Minister had said to him some minutes previously, "for goodness' sake give these chaps a pat on the back. I know you don't think much of them—nor, between ourselves, do I—but the country won't stand conscription, though we all know it's the only thing. For the Lord's sake remember your party—we're a bit dicky as it is—and say something civil."

Whereupon Graeme spoke, his words being audible not only to those he was addressing, but also to the assembled crowd.

"I've been asked to speak to you," he said, "and damme, I will. Listen, then. Soldiers I know, sailors I know, but you, you're neither flesh, fowl, nor good red herring. I give you my word one regiment of regulars would play the bloody bear with an Army Corps of such a scratch mob as you. My friend Jampots here"—this in graceful allusion to the firm of which the present War Minister was a member—"says he don't think much of you, nor, begad, do I."

This peroration completed, Graeme rode off, well pleased with himself, and his speech having been reported in every paper, the result was a vote of censure on Jampots, a division in the House, and the subsequent defeat of the Government.

For Hector, for some strange reason—the stranger considering the contempt he had for them—was beloved by the British public. The very Socialistic spirit of the age, which he abhorred, being almost reactionary in his own views, worked in his favour; for Hector was always at war with authority, and the hearts of the mob warmed to him as they viewed his fierce battling with overwhelming odds. He made them laugh too—a certain passport to their favour—and yet with this laughter was mingled no contempt, his reckless bravery and constant brilliant success forbade that. Added to which, there was much sympathy felt towards him on account of his well-known marital differences, for that Hector was responsible for them no one save the Caldwells and their relations believed. For the man, though notorious throughout the Service for an outrageously blasphemous tongue, was yet renowned for his austere morality, whereas Lady Graeme was now one at whom a good many looked askance. For in that way had Lucy taken her trouble, and few would have recognised in the full-busted, dyed-haired, and loud-voiced Lady Graeme the modest country-loving Lucy of former days. Of her husband she would talk openly, and as openly ridicule. "Mad Jack again!" she would exclaim, to the crowd of boys always in attendance. "Gracious, what a nuisance the man's getting! Give me a cigarette, like a dear, and talk of something else. You forget I lived with the treasure for ten years, and, heavens, how bored I was!" And so, as usual, the least guilty received the blame, and Lucy, in men's eyes, was the sinner, and Hector the injured—liked the better for his injuries.

Further—and probably this was the chief factor in their regard—there was about Graeme an undefined element of mystery; the strange story of the ghost, derided by some but believed in by many, invested with a weird charm his successes, which, brilliant as they were, they would have lacked without.

All these things, together with his utter disregard of consequences to himself, his obvious disinterestedness, and his contempt of party shufflings, impressed the variable mob; and such an expression of opinion as that uttered before the Mansion House completely damned the Territorial scheme, and destroyed all public faith in the party then in power. Graeme, however, did not seek re-election—he was already sick of the dirty political game—but proceeded on a tour round the world, from which he had returned but a few weeks before the declaration of war. Again the same attempt was made to ignore him—and this time it was stronger then ever, for both parties were now against him—but the public would have none of it, and though the authorities refused the demand for his appointment to the chief command, they so far yielded to pressure as to give him the leadership of the two cavalry divisions, from the camp of which he had just arrived, unfortunately in time to hear Caldwell's last remark.

"A hanging job this, Cockaleekie," he went on, looking around him; "where's a rope? Aha!" Then running to the marquee he drew a knife from his pocket, and cutting through one of the tent cords, returned with it in his hand to the now silent quartette.

"Round his neck, so!"—fitting the noose over Caldwell's head as he spoke, and then tossing the other end over the bracket of an adjacent lamp-post—"Ready now? Sound the dead march then, whack your tummy for the drum, old Mac; what the devil are you laughing at?" seeing abroad smile on the surgeon's and Newton's faces. There was no smile on the faces of Caldwell and Glover, however, but an expression of scorn on the one and terror on the other, for well Glover knew Hector Graeme, and also Hector Graeme's idea of a joke.

"Think I don't mean it?" he cackled. "Gad, I'll show you, then." He drew the rope tighter, but the boy never flinched, and his eyes now expressed hatred as well as scorn.

"Sir," said Macpherson, his smile suddenly fading, "Caldwell was only joking, very wrong, I own, but he's young, sir."

The cord dropped from Graeme's hands.

"What did you say his bloody name was?"

"Caldwell, sir, General Belfield's A.D.C."

A slash of the knife, and the rope lay in pieces on the ground.

"Be off," he said, "cackle as much as you like, I won't touch you. It's the way you and the rest of the brood have been brought up. Go and chatter about your Commander-in-Chief, if you will; I've stood it for years, and despise it. Clear!"

Silently Caldwell saluted and went, and for a minute an awkward pause followed. Graeme stood looking after the retreating figure, and, then suddenly throwing himself forward on to his hands, he turned a couple of cartwheels and once more came back to the group.

"What's the night's bag," he said, "a good un, ain't it, and mixed?"

"I don't know yet for certain, sir," answered Macpherson. "There are four generals killed, and close on seven thousand officers and men either dead or wounded. The missing, of course, I don't count."

"Hurrah! That'll make 'em sing Rule Britannia at home; a jolly good lesson to 'em, though they'll forget it in a year. Think we're going to win, Mac?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't, that drawn mug of yours gives you away, we shall, though. The old green-backs, yonder," waving his hand to the north, "are in for a hell of a hiding. Like my hat?" suddenly addressing the open-mouthed Newton.

"N-no, sir."

"Boil my lights," suddenly becoming furious, "d'ye hear that, MacSporran? He don't like my hat. Well, well, nor does Moleyns; and that reminds me I'm due at the talking shop at nine. Holy trousers!" pulling out a frying pan of a watch, "half-past by my old chest protector. Tra la! tra la!" and gathering up his skirts the Commander-in-Chief skipped nimbly over the rails guarding the hospital entrance, and jumping on his horse galloped away to Headquarters, flakes of mud and sprays of dirty water flying around him.

From the marquee behind a man emerged, his white apron and sleeves splashed with blood, and joined Macpherson, who was now alone, Glover and Newton having ridden away together.

"Morning, Sir George," said the P.M.O., turning to the new-comer; "pretty busy in there, aren't you? Gad, but the country ought to be grateful to you."

"Bah!" said the latter, a famous London surgeon, now on self-imposed duty with the British expeditionary force, while a thousand patients were left lamenting in town behind him.

"Isn't that Sir Hector Graeme riding away?"

"Yes."

"Commander-in-Chief, now, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"I'm one of his admirers, General."

"So am I, Sir George."

The other smiled—for an admirer, the speaker's voice was singularly unenthusiastic.

"I believe in the ghost too," Romford continued.

The P.M.O. frowned, hesitated for a moment, and then spoke out. "Look here, Sir George, you're one of us, so there's no harm in you and me discussing the question. Tell me what do you make of this ghost business—epilepsy?"

"Decidedly not—Graeme's no epileptic; nor were Joan of Arc, St. Paul, and other visionaries, as used to be supposed. That idea's exploded. An epileptic never remembers what he's seen in his seizures—they did."

"What is it, then—mania?"

"Nor that either. All that eccentricity, in my opinion, is only a pose, probably to attract attention. Diseased vanity's at the bottom of that, I should say; it's quite separate from the vision part—that's a form of hysteria."

"Purely physical, you think?"

"Partly and partly metaphysical. I'll tell you my theory, if you like; it's my own, and probably worthless, but such as it is you can have it. It's this. In every human being there exists something—call it soul, call it subconscious self if you like—and that something, which I hold to be immortal, passes at death to another body. But in the majority, though it controls, it works underground, and is silent; in others, however—the abnormal—it makes itself heard, and at certain moments takes charge and speaks; then we have what are called flashes of genius. A genius does not reason or think a matter out as we do. His ideas come, and are followed. And to my thinking they come not from the man himself, but from his soul, endowed with the knowledge and experience of thousands of years. That's what makes the characters and masterpieces of poets and painters that were drawn ages ago true to present-day life. It is universal, not individual, human nature they describe."

"But the visions—how do you account for them, a man can't see his own soul?"

"Something or someone seen when the mind, from certain causes, is extraordinarily excited, and so it becomes indelibly photographed on the mental vision; thenceforth, by a very natural sequence, the voice of subconscious self becomes that of the vision."

"But I've always understood that these visions are only seen occasionally."

"Exactly, when the mind is in the same state as it was when the apparition first appeared, that can and usually is as the mental picture fades with physical powers, for delusion dies with or just before the body, brought about by drugs or some other excitant to the nerves."

"What for?"

"Because he must have the vision to tell him what to do. It gives him the inspiration, without which he's firmly convinced he cannot act—and he couldn't."

"But Graeme's not a drug-taker; he won't touch even a sleeping-draught, though ordered by a doctor; he smokes but little too, five cigarettes a day, never more."

"What does he drink?"

"He's a teetotaler, save for an occasional bottle of champagne. Hullo, Glover, what do you want?"

"Sir Hector, sir, I forgot to give him his flask; here it is."

In an instant Sir George had stretched out his hand, and coolly taking the flask unscrewed the top, and put it to his nostrils. He then handed it to Macpherson, who did the same.

"Hurry, Glover," said the P.M.O., "you'll catch him if you're quick," and the boy galloped away, leaving the two looking at each other.

"Good-day, General," said Romford at last; "I must get back to my work."

CHAPTER XXV

"Any sign yet of Sir Hector? It's past the half-hour, and our time's short enough, goodness knows. You might look out, one of you, and see, will you?"

The speaker, Sir Thomas Moleyns, glanced up from the desk at which he sat, with a typewritten document before him. He alone of the assembled crowd was seated, the remainder, all generals, were standing together in a group some distance away.

Moleyns, however, had already assumed the mantle of Lord Harford, just deceased. With this garment upon his back, he had now discarded his former transparent cloak of subserviency, and was issuing orders boldly in his own name, one of the said orders being the summons to attend the present conference at Headquarters.

All had obeyed save one. That one was his nominal chief, for nominal Moleyns intended him to be; if not, well, he had cards up his sleeve higher than any the other was likely to possess. If necessary, he would produce these, but such necessity, he felt confident, was hardly likely to arise, for Graeme would certainly knuckle under, as Lord Harford and all others with whom he had hitherto come in contact had done.

At his request, brigadiers, major-generals even, anxious to placate the all-powerful, hastened to the door. Then they suddenly stopped, and looked back over Moleyn's head, to where the upper half of a top-hatted figure was to be seen busily engaged in cutting an entrance through the side of the tent.

The Chief of the Staff was once more bending over his papers, and did not note the rapidly-growing astonishment on the faces of his audience.

"Can't you see him?" he said, after a pause. "Really, this is——"

"It is. Good-morning, your Highness," and with an agile spring Graeme leapt in front of the desk, and, doffing his hat, bowed low. "And what may be your Nib's royal commands?" he continued. "Oh, pray be seated," as Moleyns rose, and with narrowing eyes stood regarding the quaint figure before him.

"As Chief of the General Staff, sir," he said, with an almost open sneer in his voice, "and the matter being urgent, I took the liberty of summoning these gentlemen to a conference."

"A liberty, Thomas? Oh, don't say that."

Moleyns coloured. "In the absence of the Commander-in-Chief, sir, I submit, with all respect, it's the duty of the Headquarter Staff to act on their own responsibility. Lord Harford took that view, sir."

"Lord Harford's offed it, Thomas, flown away aloft, and now it's bloody Hector Graeme who runs the show. 'Mad Jack' they call him. And Mad Jack now says to Thomas, 'Shut up, you had your fun last night, and you ain't going to have no more.'"

"Sir?"

"Stuff it! Jack commands his own bloody army his own bloody way, and that way ain't Thomas's. Stop your cackling now; I jaw here. Off your perch quick, and join the other blokes. Now, all of you get into line, and let's have a look at your dials; there's a lot I don't know." Mechanically the crowd shuffled into line and stood silently, while Graeme passed along them, staring hard at each in turn. Opposite one he stopped, and then suddenly held out his hand.

"Long Nose," he said, "I'd know that bill in a thousand. What are you doing here?"

"I'm commanding the tenth division, sir," answered Godwin, for he it was, a flush rising to his face at the instant recognition.

"Nose seems longer—regular curlew's beak," said Graeme, and passed with a muttered "One good un, anyway." The inspection ended, he returned to the desk, and, perching himself on it, sat there for a moment regarding them.

"Blokes," he said at last, "I don't want ye here, nasty wet day to be out, but you can thank Thomas for that, not me. Still, now that you've come, I'm going to ask you all a conundrum. You know the hat we're in. Uriel's lot of thirty thousand, full of buck after last night's pantomime, in our front fifteen miles away; behind them one hundred thousand under Gabriel—a scorcher, Gabriel, I tell you—and from the west, coming up fast, another eighty thousand under Michael, almost as hot as Gabriel. By to-morrow night we'll have at least two hundred thousand of the best against our scratch lot of a hundred and fifty thousand, that is, if they don't off it before then, which, from what I saw as I came along, seems more than likely. There you have it in the neck, and I hope you like it. Now each of you in turn answer this question—what are we to do? I'll begin with old Archibald there."

"Retreat, sir, to the coast, as quick as we can," was the ready answer.

"Get back to the ships."

"Retire."

"Retire."

"Slip away to-night."

"Have another go at 'em, sir. I can beat last night's lot off my own bat. My men ain't Hearts of Oak, sir."

"Oho! and who are you, my fighting ram?"

"Fellowes, sir, Guards division," answered the speaker, a huge red-haired man with choleric, blue eyes.

"Hum ... and you?" passing on.

"Retire, sir, nothing else for it."

"Retire."

"Stay where we are, sir, and fight them as they come. We'll be wiped out, but that don't matter much; it's better than slinking home, anyway."

This from a skeleton of a man, with haggard face, large dark eyes, and hair patched with grey.

"Who are you, Drink or Colney Hatch?"

"Roy, sir, Lancashire division."

"Roy," repeated Graeme, passing on, "Roy. And you, Boko?"

"Retire, sir, but fight them all the way," said Godwin. "Retreat to Corunna, sir."

"And now we'll hear Thomas."

"Certainly retire, sir, it's the only possible course. The plans are already drawn up, and here ready for your approval."

"Let's see them."

Moleyns' confidence returning at the request, he handed a document to Graeme, who thereupon rolled it up into a ball and threw it at the other's head. The Chief of the Staff, however, ducking in time, the missile flew over his head, hitting Sir Archibald Townsend in the stomach.

"Missed him!" cried Hector, annoyed, and then once more turned to his audience.

"Clear, all of you," he said, "back to your commands, and shove some heart into 'em, if you can; for, begad, they need it—so do you. Return here at two o'clock. I'll have something to tell you then."

All save one saluted and withdrew in silence. Moleyns stood before Graeme, with a mixture of defiance and uneasiness on his face.

"After what has occurred, sir," he said, with surface boldness, "there is only one course, I think, for me to adopt, and with your permission, sir, I now tender my resignation as Chief of the Staff."

"You can go to the devil for all I care," was the answer, "get out!" and Sir Thomas also withdrew, leaving Graeme alone.

"He's off to cable to Quibble," he muttered, looking after him. "All right, let him; he won't get an answer, if I know anything about it. Hades, but I'm up against the politicians as usual, same as every English general's been, Marlborough, Wellington, and now poor old Hector. Cowardly brutes, sitting at home in the talking shop while we're fighting their battles. The enemy's not enough, they think; must fight them as well. Never mind, I'm equal to them; the more against me the better I like it. Now what am I to do? Not an idea so far, except that attack I must. It will come all right; I've only to ask. First thing is to appoint a new Chief of the Staff, don't suppose though one of those fellows would come, too frightened of Moleyns. Not much catch if they did; of the lot only two were for fighting, the curs. Still it has to be one of them, but which? Fellowes, no; thick-headed fighting man and that only. Roy, too pessimistic. Ah, what about Godwin? He might do, and his old fancy for me still lasts; I could see it when I spoke to him."

"Orderly," he called, "here, run after General Godwin—he's a bloke with a beak—and tell him I want him. Don't come back without him, d'ye hear?"

The man vanished, and a quarter of an hour afterwards the sound of galloping hoofs was heard, followed by advancing footsteps. Then the curtain was pushed aside, the long-nosed one entered, and stood at attention.

"I want you, Old Un," began Graeme, without preliminary, "as Chief of the Staff. Moleyns has given me notice. What d'ye say?"

Godwin hesitated.

"I suppose you think," continued Hector, eyeing him, "that if I go under over this, Moleyns being Quibble's boy, it's a poor look out for you. I ain't going under, though; you mark that, old bird."

"I wasn't thinking that at all, sir," was the answer, "my career's finished, in any case, by age."

"Do what I ask, and you shall be Commander-in-Chief when you get back."

"What about you then, sir?"

"Me? I've done with it after this. I'll pull them through now, and then home I go and speak out—tell the nation what sort of troops Quibble and his like send out to face the best soldiers in the world. I'll do what Roberts ought to have done when he had the chance in 1900, but wasn't man enough to take it. He told them afterwards when he was outed and had no further advancement to hope for; but no one would listen then, and rightly—he hadn't the weight of office behind him. 'Why didn't you speak then?' was a question he couldn't answer; 'we'd have believed you if you had; now you're one of us, and we won't. You're a nobody now.' But I'm rambling, what's your objection?"

"That Chief of the Staff, sir, is an appointment made by the Army Council. What if they cancel mine by wire?"

"Leave that to me, will you or not?"

"Very well, sir, if you wish it; and I'm proud of the honour, sir."

"Here's what you're to do, then. Go back to your division and hand over to your next senior. Then deliver these orders," writing as he spoke, "to Sir Archibald Townsend and these five others. Out they go, that's the first thing."

"Sir," stammered Godwin, aghast at this high-handedness—"six generals relieved of their command. What reason, sir? They're bound to ask."

"Tell them I don't like their faces—nor I do. Now, see here, Cockalorum. Once upon a time at a field day, fifteen years ago, I was sold by a junior, and a lesson once given I never forget. I didn't blaspheme, Godwin, I didn't whine, for no one cares why a fellow loses, or believes his reasons. No, I took the blame, but I swore that never should such a thing happen to me again. To keep those six generals means six useless divisions, and every one of those divisions I shall want. So ... out they go. Now, when you've done that, ride through the following camps," giving him another paper, "don't ask questions, but keep your eyes open, and let me know what you see. Be back here at half-past one; that will give us half an hour before the generals arrive. One thing more—tell the guard outside to post sentries round this tent, and on no account to let anyone pass till you come yourself."

"Very good, sir. Is that all?"

"Replace the present telegraph staff with men you personally know and can trust. Give them orders that all messages, no matter to whom addressed, are to be given into your hands or mine. That's all."