THAT WHICH HATH WINGS (continued 10)

"SHERBRAND OF THE R.F.C. STRAFES ANOTHER HUN-BIRD. BAG BROUGHT UP TO NINE, AND TWO ENEMY KITE-BALLOONS. POPULAR YOUNG AVIATOR NOW VISCOUNT NORWATER, HEIR-PRESUMPTIVE TO BRITISH EARL."

"He may be sent back to the Front at any moment—it is natural that they should wish to be together, don't you think?" The speaker added, as Saxham made no immediate rejoinder: "As they are engaged to be married, and what is more, engaged with your consent."

"She has told you so?"

"No!" A shadow of the old smile hovered upon the sensitive mouth. "I told her, and she could not deny it.... Oh, Owen! Do you really believe I have been blind all this time?"

"I should have known that women have clairvoyance in these matters. But Patrine feared that you would think her unfeeling or inconsiderate——"

"And why? Because when God sent me a great grief He gave my poor girl a great happiness? The best earthly happiness, save one, that He holds in His gift."

"I thank Him that you still think so, after thirteen years of marriage!"

"I shall always think so, Owen. And it is a great thing that Patrine has chosen so well. He is true and brave, and loves my dear sincerely. And her love is beautiful and disinterested. There is no taint of baseness in her——"

"She has nothing of Mildred or of David, then," flashed through the Doctor's mind. Lynette went on:

"No one will ever be able to charge her with venality or mercenariness. The succession that they will talk of in the newspapers was not dreamed of when she and Alan fell in love."

"The succession! Ah, of course!" the Doctor said; "There is a possible succession to a Viscounty now that Lord Norwater's death is proved fact, but only in case Lady Norwater bears no male child. But a title would not spoil Sherbrand, and I agree with you that it has never influenced Patrine."

"How tired you look!" Lynette said, noting the look of heavy care and the deep lines of weariness traced on the stern visage.

"I have several critical private cases, and a long list of operations for this morning at SS. Stanislaus and Theresa's. Now go and dress, my sweet, for I have work to do."

And Lynette went with a happier look than she had worn since the crushing blow fell. And Saxham shot the bolt of his consulting-room door and went back to his chair at the big writing-table, and leaned his head upon his hands.

An Atlas burden of care cracked the sinews of the Doctor's huge shoulders. It had not occurred to Saxham when Patrine had gulped out her pitiful story, and he had heartened her by bidding her forget, that forgetfulness would speedily be accomplished at the cost of an honest man.

Now, what to do? Must Sherbrand take the stranger's leavings or David's girl be twice the loser by the stranger's lustful theft? It was a problem to thrash the brain to jelly of grey matter, thought the Dop Doctor, drilling his fingertips into his aching temples—were there no cause for anxiety elsewhere.

Ah! how much more stuffed the pack that burdened the big shoulders. The boy had been taken and the mother would die of grief. You could see her withering like a white rose held near the blast of a smelting-furnace. Yet there was nothing to do but look on and play the game. A bitter spasm gripped the man by the throat, and slow tears, wrung from the depths of him by mortal anguish, splashed on the paper between his elbows and raised great blisters there. Truly, when the spark of Hope burns dimmest, when the grain of Faith is a thousand times smaller than the mustard-seed—when God seems most far away, He is nearest. We have learned this with other truths, in the War. Blood and tears mingle in the collyrium with which our eyes have been bathed, that we might see.

Saxham battled down his weakness, and rose up and went to duty. None might guess, looking at the Dop Doctor, that those hard, bright eyes had wept an hour ago. Later on, a moment serving, he went to the telephone.

"Halloa! Is this New Scotland Yard? M.P.O.? Halloa! ... I am Dr. Saxham, speaking from SS. Stanislaus and Theresa's Hospital, N.W. Can I get word with Superintendent-on-the-Executive, Donald Kirwall? Halloa! ... Thanks, I'll hold the line."

He waited a minute, and the Superintendent answered:

"Halloa! Dr. Saxham? Anything we can do for you, sir?"

"Yes. Put me on six good plain-clothes men at this Mass Meeting of Suffragists at the Royal Hall to-night. Can you? ... Halloa! ... I could do with eight or ten!"

"Halloa! ... Well, sir, we'll do what we can. We'll be pretty strong in force there, as it happens, Marylebone and Holborn and St. James's Divisions...." Something like an official chuckle came over the line. "Mrs. Petrell in the chair, and the Clash and Fanny Higgins. We've learned to look for trouble when they get up to speak. Halloa! Beg pardon! I didn't quite hear! ..."

Saxham had cursed the popular leaders.

"Yes, I was aware they'd prevailed on Mrs. Saxham to address 'em.... Indeed, they're advertising her all over the shop.... Halloa? ... Certainly we'll put you on the plain-clothes men you ask for. But even without Police to protect her, Mrs. Saxham don't run much risk. Halloa! ... Why! ... Oh! because an uncommon big percentage of the audience on these packed nights are out-and-out loose women. Soho and Leicester Square, and all that lot.... Others come up from Poplar and Stepney and Bethnal Green and Deptford to hear Fanny Higgins. Halloa? Do they want the Vote? Well, naturally these gay women like the idea of being Represented in Parliament. If respectable females are going to get good of it, naturally the prostitutes want the Franchise. They hold that Woman Suffrage 'ud improve their conditions. Halloa! ... You don't know but what the gay women have as good a right to vote as the gay men who employ 'em? No more don't I! But whatever they are, they appreciate those who spend their lives in trying to help the unfortunate. And, West or East-Enders—the most chronic cases among 'em wouldn't suffer a finger to be laid on your wife. All the same, I'll attend to your instructions. Doors at 7. The men shall be there. Don't worry yourself! Four ready back of the Platform and four more posted right and left of the proscenium. Don't mention it! Very proud to.... Good-afternoon!"

"Good-afternoon and thanks, Superintendent!"

And Saxham rang off, more relieved in mind than he would have cared to own. Then the horn of a motor sounded below in the Hospital courtyard, and another and another followed. Tyres crackled on gravel. The running feet of men pattered on pavement. The hall-porter whistled up the speaking-tube into the Medical Officer's Room, and Saxham went down, meeting the black-robed Mother Prioress and the Sister Superintendent on their way to the great vestibule.

CHAPTER LXII

WOUNDED FROM THE FRONT

The wide-leaved front doors stood open. Doctors and surgeons, theatre-assistants, students, white-habited Sisters, blue-and-white-uniformed nurses and probationers, were swarming in the great vestibule. Already a double stream of canvas stretchers, laden with still figures swathed in iodined gauze and cotton-wool padding, were being carried up the wide steps, from the big grey-painted Red Cross motor-ambulances, by R.A.M.C., and blue-uniformed bearers of St. Theresa's Association, while omnibuses, private cars, taxis from Charing Cross and Victoria were hauled up behind, waiting to disgorge their loads. And cheer upon cheer went up from the packed sidewalks and roadway; handkerchiefs waved from the windows of the nearest houses, and the passengers on the roofs of the omnibuses passing up and down Wellington Road, Edgware Road, and Praed Street, stood up and craned their necks in the fruitless endeavour to glimpse the reason of those frantic cheers.

For the first convoy of wounded from the Front had reached the Hospital. These unwashed, begrimed, hairy brigands, these limping tramps in tattered khaki, these bandaged cripples leading blind comrades, were our Guards, our Gunners, our Highlanders, Kents, Middlesex men and Munsters, our Rifles and Northamptons, our Welsh and Gloucesters, our Scots Greys and Lancers, our immortals of those red-hot days of August, and their compeers, the terrible fighters of the Marne and the Aisne....

They were back, full of cross-nicked, nickel-coated Mauser bullets, bits of shell and lumps of shrapnel, cheap jokes, music-hall choruses, vermin, and spunk. The reek of lysol and carbolic, the sickly whiff of dysentery and the ghastly stench of gangrene, brought back to Saxham the Hospital at Gueldersdorp, as he passed back and forth between the stretchers, issuing swift orders, briefly wording directions, marshalling his trained forces with the generalship that had distinguished him of old.

"Doctor!"

"What is it, Ironside?" Saxham turned to speak to the Resident Medical Officer. "You look off-colour, man!"

"I feel off, sir. They're so damned full of grit, and cheerful! Not only the cases from the Base Hospitals, but those casualties they've sent us direct from the trenches.... Two days in the train getting to Calais—and Lord! the straw and filthiness in their wounds! And we've been told our next War'd be carried out on an absolutely Aseptic Basis, and here we are back in 1900!"

"Not quite," said Saxham. "Wounds like these were never made by Boer shrapnel. Human bodies shattered beyond imagination by High Explosive, rank among the triumphs of Modern Science. After the Stone Age and the Iron Age, the Golden Age and the Age of Shoddy has come the Age of Militant Chemistry. Martianism, in a word."

"It's an ugly word.... Doctor, that man over there," the speaker indicated a pair of hollow eyes staring hungrily over a huge iodine-smeared gauze muffler, "wants to know if we can save his lower jaw? Not that there's much left of it. His pal, who interprets for him, says a wounded German officer shot him in the face with his revolver, 'cos he went to give the blankety blank a drink out of his water-bottle. One of the Gunners—and not long married, according to the pal."

"All right, tell him! Name him for one of my beds," Saxham said brusquely, and nodded to the owner of the desperate eyes, saying, as they flared back their gratitude: "Even if it had been 1821 in the cattle-truck, we're in the Twentieth Century here. Warn Burland," he named the anæsthetist, "for duty at once. Gaynor Gaynes and Frost to be ready with the X Ray on Flat I. Mr. Whitchett and Mr. Pridd to act as Assistant Surgeons. We'll take the worst cases straight away——"

"But, my God, sir! most of these men are beyond Surgery," groaned Ironside, cracking his finger-joints. "Broken and mashed and rent as they are, what they need is to be re-created! ... If Christ were to look in here just now," the Medical Resident cried in his bitterness, "there'd be plenty of work in His line. New tissues to make, bony structures to re-build. Organs to replace where organs have been destroyed. He'd have done it by mixing earth with His saliva and anointing. We might as well spit on twenty per cent. of these fellows—for all the good we can do!"

"Give them liquid nourishment—brandy where necessary, and send those I've tagged up to the theatre. No waiting to wash—in their cases. And remember my Gunner gets the first look-in!"

Saxham turned and ran at speed, making for the nearest elevator, found it just going up full of stretcher-cases lying close packed as sardines, turned and shot up the stone staircase three steps at a time to the first floor, glittering with white enamel, polished oak, brass fittings and cleanliness, under the discreet radiance of shaded electric lights. The centre space was occupied by the tribune engirdling the domed Sanctuary of the Chapel. Short corridors tastefully adorned with red-enamelled buckets, blue glass bombs of chemical fire-extinguisher, and snaky coils of brass-fitted hose, led to long wards running east, west, north, and south.

"Eh, Doctor!"

A fair-faced, gentle-eyed Sister of Mercy, in the wide-winged starched linen cap and guimpe, and white twill nursing-habit with the black Cross, stood near the lift, talking to a tall, raw-boned, white-haired Surgeon-General of the R.A.M.C. She greeted Saxham's appearance with a little womanly cry:

"Eh, Doctor! Never it rains buddit pours." There was a hint of Lancashire in her dialect. "The R.A.M.C. have sent us ten more cases. Dear, dear!—but we'll have our hands full."

"Then you'll be happy, Sister-Superintendent. I've never known you so beamingly contented as when you were regularly run off your feet, and hadn't a minute to say your Rosary. Anything specially interesting, Sir Duncan?"

"Aweel!" The broad Scots tongue of Taggart droned the bagpipe-note as of old. "Aweel! There's an abdawminal or twa I'd like ye to throw your 'ee over—an' a G.P. that ye will find in your line. Fracture o' the lumbar vairtebra from shrapnel—received ten o'clock yesterday morr'ning!—an' some cases o' shellitis, wi' intermittent accesses o' raging mania an' intervals o' mild delusions—an' ane will gar you draw on the Medical Officer's Emergency List o' Abbreviated Observations I supplied ye wi' a guid few years agone."

"I've not forgotten."

"I'm no' dootin' but ye have found it unco' useful." Taggart's frosty eyelashes twinkled. "It has saved my ain face from shame mair times than I daur tell." He quoted, relishingly: "M.B.A.—Might Be Anything! G.O.K.—Guid Only Knows! L.F.A.—Luik for Alcohol. A.D.T.—Any Damned Thing! 'Toch, Sister, I beg your parr-don! The word slipped oot—I have nae other excuse! But my case o' shell-shock, Saxham. What say ye to an involuntary simuleetion o' rigor mortis? A man sane an' sound an' hale—clampit by his relentless imagination into the shape o' a Polwheal Air-Course Finder, or a pair o' dividers. Half open, ye ken. Ye may stand him on the ground upo' his feet, an' his neb is pointing at the daisies—or ye may lie him o' his back in bed—an' his taes are tickling the stars. Am thinking it long till I'm bringing ye thegither! But ye are busied. I'll no' keep ye the noo."

Racing for the second lift, just emptied of its sorrowful burden, the big shirt-sleeved Doctor checked in his stride and touched the handle of a sliding door. The door shot back noiselessly in its grooving. Saxham was in a cushioned tribune high above the level of the chapel Altar. The scent of flowers and the perfume of incense hung like a benison on the still air of the sacred place.

In one of the carved stalls of the nave the figure of a priest in cassock and biretta sat reading from a breviary. It was the Chaplain, waiting in readiness to be called to administer Holy Unction and Viaticum to some Catholic soul about to depart. In the choir behind the high Altar a slight girl, in the frilled cap and prim black gown of the Novitiate, knelt on a rush-bottomed prie-dieu absorbed in meditation, her black Rosary twisted round her clasped hands. Prayers that are most earnest are frequently incoherent. Saxham formulated no petition as he knelt there in the tribune, but the cry of his heart to the Divine Hearer might have been construed into words like these:

"If Thou wert here in the visible Body as when of old Thou didst walk on earth with Thy Disciples, Thou wouldst heal these broken sons of Thine with Thy look. Thy Touch, Thy Word! Yet art Thou here—for Thou hast said it, ever present for Thy Faithful in Spirit, Flesh, and Blood. Help O Helper! Heal O Healer! Lord Jesus, present in the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar, give power and wisdom to Thy servant. Aid me, working in the dark by my little flame of hard-won knowledge, to preserve life, Thou Giver of Life! Amen."

So having prayed, the Dop Doctor went up to the theatre and wrought mightily, doing wonderful things in the way of patching and botching the broken bodies of men. Later, as he sat in the Harley Street dining-room playing the courteous, attentive host to sad-eyed, wistful Madame van der Heuvel and her two pretty daughters—for Lynette had dined earlier on account of the Suffrage Meeting—he heard a latch-key in the front-door and Patrine's well-known step in the hall.

He excused himself, rose and went out, and spoke to his niece. She made a croaking sound in answer, as unlike the voice of Patrine as the pinched and sunken face revealed by the hall electroliers, resembled the face of dead David's handsome girl. The mouth hung lax. The cheeks had fallen. The eyes stared blank and tearless, from hollow caves under the broad black eyebrows. He said with a pricking of foreboding:

"You have had a long day! ..."

"Not long enough to tire me. I am made of india-rubber, I think, and steel."

He considered her a moment with grave, keen eyes that had no gleam of curiosity.

"Sherbrand is well? He returned from France in safety?"

"He was quite in the pink when he arrived—and ditto when he left. Not that he had much time. A wireless came, ordering him to replace an aviator of the Royal Flying Corps, killed on observation-duty—or whatever it is they call it—with our fellows on the new Front. Rough on him, but he took it smiling. No, thanks! I'm not keen on dinner.... You won't mind if I go to my room?"

"One moment. Have you had food to-day?" he asked her.

"I forget.... Yes, of course! There was luncheon at one o'clock. The people at the Air Station did us tremendously well." Her mouth twisted. "I think it better to tell you and Lynette that Alan Sherbrand and I have said ta-ta!" She tried to smile. "I'm back on your hands like a bad penny!" Her eyes seemed all black between their narrowed lids.

They were quite alone, no servant within hearing, and the dining-room door was shut. Came the Doctor's low-toned question:

"Has any—third person made mischief between you two?"

"No, nobody has blabbed to him about anything. But—he's wise enough now, as regards this child. Particularly wide-O!" The black, glittering eyes looked dry and hard as enamel. Her teeth again showed in that mirthless grin. "I don't suppose he has the ghost of an illusion left.... Women—most women would say I was a howling fool to make a clean breast of it. I never meant to—I can swear!—when first we got engaged. I used to call his goodness stodgy. I think I despised him for it in certain moods of mine. You've never realised the kind of beast I can be. But more and more, I got to respect him! And suddenly—I knew that if I married him under false colours—letting him believe me to be what I amn't—even though he never found me out—I'd—never have been able to shake hands with myself again!"

She moved to the stairs, the sleeve of her coat brushing the Doctor's great shoulder.

"Don't you suppose God had it all his own way," she said in that odd, strangled voice that wasn't like Patrine's. "There were minutes when the World, and the Flesh, and the Devil were jolly well to the fore. Alan would marry me to-morrow if I used the power I could use. But I won't! I won't! It'd not be playing the decent, straight game. So I let him call me heartless, and piffle like that, and then the game seemed hardly worth playing. I'd have thrown up my cards—only the Recall came. And we said good-bye, and I saw him fly away like a great white bird, over the water. And I'm so strong—so horribly strong—that I stood it and didn't die.... Even if Alan's killed at the Front I shan't die.... Ah-h! ... You mustn't touch me!" Her hands plucked themselves violently from Saxham's that would have enfolded them. "I could stand anything better than pity. Being pitied would kill me—though I'm so awfully strong!"

"Then trust us not to pity you—only to love you. That I look upon you as a daughter is no secret to you, I think?"

"No, dear!" She stroked his sleeve, not lifting her pitifully reddened eyelids, and then he felt her start. "Uncle Owen!" Her hand clenched upon his arm, and her tear-blurred eyes sought his. "I must tell you.... He had news to give me to-day—of Bawne!"

"Nothing worse, thank God!—than what I know already," Saxham commented when she had told. He stood in silence a moment, mastering himself, and the electric hall-light showed in his harsh square visage the ravages that grief had wrought.

"How you have suffered! If only I could do something to comfort you!" she muttered. "And Lynette. Do you know—there are days"—a sob caught her breath—"when I daren't even look at Lynette."

"It is so with me!" His voice was deep and quiet and sorrowful. "Old Webster probed deep with his Elizabethan goose-quill, when he wrote of the

"Greyfe that wastyth a faire woman

Even as wax doth waste yn flame."

Pray for us both, my dear, and believe that you are a comfort to us."

She said with a laugh that was half a sob: "I might have made a hole in the water at Seasheere, or jumped out of the train on the way back, I daresay, but for the thought of you both. Or, if it wasn't that stopped me, my joss was on the job."

"I had rather say your Guardian Angel."

"Do you think any self-respecting Guardian Angel could possibly bother about a regular bad egg like me?"

"Mine did—when my wife married me and I was a peculiarly bad egg."

"You, you dear!" She suddenly caught him round the neck and hugged him strenuously. "Do you think I don't know—haven't always known how my father and mother treated you!"

"Time heals wounds of that kind," said Saxham, as they turned together from the foot of the staircase, and, still keeping a protecting arm about David's daughter, he reached his hat and stick from the hall-stand, "though you may doubt the statement now."

"I can't. I'd only have to look at mother to——"

"To remember that she is your mother!"

His tone was final in its closure of the subject. But in his heart he thanked frail Mildred once again for her ancient treachery, as he went out to the waiting car, and sped through London's murky streets to the North-West suburb where stands the Hospital.

Patrine went upstairs, holding by the balusters and feeling chilly and old. In the prettily furnished sitting-room, communicating with her chintzy bedroom, were her letters, and a deep cardboard box stood upon a table. It had been sent on to Harley Street from the Club, and bore the address of a Regent Street florist, whose showy establishment boasted a German name.

The fragrance of roses with a musky after-tang in their sweetness permeated the atmosphere. There were no roses amongst the flowers on the chimney-shelf and cabinets. It occurred to Patrine that there must be roses in the box.

Her head was throbbing and her eyes smarted. She threw off her hat and coat, pitched them down upon the chintzy sofa, switched off the electric lights, let up the blinds, pulled a chair close to the open window, and sat down, resting her folded arms on the clean, dustless sill.

Sitting there, staring out into the semi-obscurity of Harley Street, with the late cabs and motors sliding past and the distant roar of Oxford Street in her ears, she asked herself:

"Have I behaved like an honourable woman or—a blithering idiot? That's what I want to know?"

She waited. Not one pat on the back was vouchsafed by an approving Conscience. The indicator of the dial slowly travelled in the direction of the blitherer. Patrine shut her hot, dry eyes, and began to conjure up the day that had gone over. Its sweetness was rendered infinitely sweeter, its bitterness a hundredfold more poignant by the knowledge that it was the last, the very last.

If she lived to be old, old, old, she knew she would never live to forget Seasheere. The smell of the hot thyme and sun-baked grasses of the cliffs, the rhythmic frrsh! of the salt waves upon its shingle, the shrill piping of its gulls, and pale blue of its skies would never fade, never cease, never be silent, never alter.... For on Seasheere cliffs her Wind of Joy had blown for the last time.

CHAPTER LXIII

BAWNE FINDS A FRIEND

The machine that could hover like Sherbrand's "Bird of War" had come down in the Market Place. A big grey two-seater monoplane, with the rounded cleft bird-tail and wings of the German Taube type. You could see a number on its side and three big black Maltese crosses, and the profile heads of pilot and passenger showing up in strong relief against the blackened ruins of the Town Hall.

A bomb hung in its wire cage-holder on the visible side of the fuselage. It struck Franky that the airman must be profoundly sure of himself, or culpably reckless to have come down before getting rid of the thing. A swivel-mounting like a barless capital A supported a machine-gun above the radius of the tractor, and well within reach of the pilot's hand.

The pilot got down. He was tall and big, with a red moustache; a man whose natural height and bulk were so augmented by the padded helmet topped with the now-raised goggles, the pneumatic jacket girt in by a broad band of webbing, supporting a brace of large revolvers, and the heavy bandolier he carried, that the figure of his companion, scrambling after him, seemed that of a mere dwarf.

The man who saw, per medium of the rakishly-angled looking-glass yet hanging on the wall of the wrecked parlour, conceived a horror of the Troll-like creature in its big helmet, and the full-sized oilskins that hung in folds about its diminutive body, the skirts reaching nearly to the ground. When the two passed beyond the mirror's area of reflection, the doubt whether they might not have discovered his whereabouts and be stealthily creeping up from the rear to attack him, made him shudder, and brought the perspiration starting in the hollows of his sunken temples and cheeks.

Minutes passed. He waited with his eyes upon the mirror. Someone was approaching from the direction of the Market Place, keeping well under the broken walls of the houses fringing the narrow trottoir. Where an avalanche of tiles and brickwork had fallen, he must perforce skirt the obstacle, and thus for an instant be reflected in the glass. Meanwhile the sound of nearing footsteps—sometimes muffled in thick dust, or clicking over cobblestones, or tripping and stumbling among bricks and rubble—grew more distinct. The red-moustached giant could not walk so lightly. It must be the Troll—could be no one but the Troll! The suspense of waiting had tensed into unbearable agony when the sound of a voice crying broke out in the deathly silence of the place.

"Oh, oh!" Like a woman or a child's uncontrolled wailing. "Oh—the poor men! Oh, the poor women and the li-ittle ch-ildren! Oh!" and da capo, working up to a crescendo of agony, and dying away in heartbreaking sobs. It was so strange—not that there should be weeping in these razed and ravaged streets, but that the voice that wept should be a voice of England—that it begot in the helpless man who heard doubts of his own sanity, and a reckless desire to dissipate such doubts. He heard himself call out: "Who is crying there?"

And a treble voice piped back, and stumbling over the moraine of débris tongueing from the avalanche of broken tiles and masonry, came—not the Troll-dwarf in his huge disguising helmet and outsized pneumatic jacket—but an urchin of twelve or thirteen—in the familiar dress of a Boy Scout—minus the smasher hat and staff.

"Me for the gay old life!" meditated Franky. "Thought I was getting groggy in the upper works—and now I know it! A British Boy Scout in his little khaki shirt, with a row of gadgets on his left sleeve, and ribbon tags to his little garters, all on his little lone in the middle of this—Gehenna!" He spoke to the fever that galloped through his veins in the tone of a patron presiding at the test-display of a Cinema Film Company: "Pretty good, but you can do better. Roll along with a troop of blue-eyed Girl Guides, old Touch-and-Go!"

The Scout's figure vanished out of the glass. There was a sound of scratching and scrambling. The broken floor jarred to the impact of a light body, and a boyish treble called:

"Is—is anybody here? Anybody—English?"

The voice quavered on the last word. Franky knew that this was delirium. He grinned under his four-days' beard, and the grime and soot and plaster that masked him, and answered in a series of Bantu clicks, so leather-dry was his tongue:

"Me as per descrip: to fol: Young British sossifer of good fam: irrepro: ref: and tophole edu: badly dam: by Hun shell! Greatly in need of the com: of a ref: Chris: ho: Mus: in the eve: and intell: conver: greatly appre:" He shut his stiff eyelids and opened them again, but the imaginary Scout had not gone.

"You're dreadfully—hurt. Couldn't I do—something?" the treble voice piped. Its owner was now squatting on his heels in the shade of Franky's penthouse of planks. The knuckles he rested on the floor were cracked and grimy, and his deeply-freckled, fair-complexioncd face was lined, and anxious and thin. His blue eyes were swollen with crying, though his sensitive lips wore a wistful, crooked smile. "You are real?" he asked wistfully, and Franky answered, huskily:

"Rather! In fact, I'm a lot more real than you. Who are you, since we're gettin' personal?" He repeated slowly after the boy:

"'Bawne Mildare Saxham, Scout No. 22. Fox Patrol, 331st London W.' Seems good enough." He shut his hot eyes wearily. "But if you're solid—you'd get me a drink!"

There was a little stir. The Scout had gone. Franky knew it without opening his eyes, yielding to the deadly sinking faintness engendered by the effort of speech. A mountainous weight crushed his chest, and his legs were cold and heavy as ingots of pig-iron. It occurred to him that at this rate the—wind-up—could not be far off. And a great horror fell upon him like a pall, and cold sweat broke forth and streamed upon his haggard face and broken body. Death for one who so loved Life and the pleasant things of a commonplace existence.... A cricket-match, a day with the hounds, a funny revue, a game of polo, a break at billiards, a clinking run with the car, a fine cigar. Mess in camp after the hard day's march, long, cool drinks with bits of ice tinkling in the tumbler. That new, fierce pleasure tasted in his first experience of real fighting.... And oh! how much sweeter than these the scent of Margot's hair, the light of Margot's eyes, the clasp of her arms about his neck, the hope of fatherhood, never now to be realised....

"My little chap!" he muttered, and his heart wept, but no tears came to his arid eyes. Then something cold touched his mouth. The rim of a cup with water in it. "Thank you!" he said, after a gulping draught, opening his eyes with the sense of reviving coolness stealing through his parched vitals. "That's—absolutely IT!"

The boyish treble said with a quaver in it:

"If I set this can beside you—I got the water from the pipe that is running—and the broken cup near it, could you manage to dip it in? Are you able to move this hand?"

"First class!" whispered Franky, lifting the member a very little way and dropping it again. "The—the other arm came in for it when the shrapper hit me in the ribs.... Halloa! Chocolate," for a bit touched his lips and was gently pushed between them. "That reminds me. I've an iron ration somewhere about me. No—they took my pack off when I got crumped up." It had seemed only—decent to Franky in those days of endless foot-slogging, to carry a pack and a Lee-Enfield and fare no better than his men. "Frightfully obliged. But I won't take this." This being another scrap of chocolate. "Is thy servant a Boche that he should stodge kid's grub?"

"You're English!" The blue eyes were full of hungry worship. "Man alive!" quavered the boyish treble, "you don't know how I've wanted to hear an English voice again. Tell me"—he panted and was pale under his multitudinous freckles, and the beating of the childish heart shook the thin young frame—"the Germans haven't beaten England—and sunk our Navy, and wiped out our Army—and killed the King, and Lord Roberts, and the Chief Scout, and Lord Kitchener, and—and my father and mother and everyone?"

"No!" said the wounded man, and his faint whisper was as convincing as though the negative had been shouted with the full strength of vigorous lungs. "Is that the kind of lie they've been pitching you? Perhaps it does 'em good to believe it! Let 'em, if they like. It'll never be true!"

"I knew it couldn't!" The clear treble had lost its quaver. "And yet there were times when I was funky. He seemed so awfully sure at—the beginning! And—the Enemy never stops—rubbing it in!"

"Who is the Enemy?"

"His name is von Herrnung. And—and I must go now, for—for your sake." The eyes flickered, and their pupils dilated to wide circles of frightened blackness. "He might wake up—and come—and find you. And if he found you——"

When the arteries have been almost depleted by hæmorrhage, and the strength of the body has ebbed to vanishing point, the brain is sometimes dazzlingly clear. Thus, though the faint whisper barely reached the ear of the other, the haggard eyes looking out of the begrimed and unshaven face of the man lying in the blood-soaked stretcher were alert and observant. He said reassuringly:

"He won't come just yet. Tell me more about him, and all about yourself."

How strangely lined and pinched and puckered was the young face with its clear red-and-white sprinkled over with brown freckles. Fine dust of dew-beads started upon forehead and temples and cheeks, the half-opened mouth twitched nervously, though he thrust out his under-jaw and knitted his reddish brows in a gallant effort of self-control.

"His name is von Herrnung. He is the German Field Flight officer who took me away from England. I wrote down the date in my Scout's pocket-book so that I mightn't forget. It was July 18th. He was trying Mr. Sherbrand's hawk-hoverer at Hendon. He asked me to go up with him——"

"Great Snipe!" panted Franky weakly. "Are YOU the boy who dropped the wallet with the Clanronald Papers and the scratched message in the North Sea?"

The blue eyes understood. "There was a wallet," said their owner. "I don't know what was inside, of course. But he——"

A spasm of trembling went through the slender body. He bent his head, and blinked his eyes, and the muscles of his throat and jaw worked as though he fought down an hysterical access of tears. And a broad shaft of golden light, falling on the young bare head, showed how the shining red-brown hair had been roughly clipped in ridges, leaving a forehead-tuft oddly streaked with white. Amongst the crowds of homeless exiles endlessly streaming along the roads of this scourged and tortured country, or crouching amongst the wreckage of its ruined villages and battered towns, heads even younger than this boy's had displayed the tragic sign.

"Poor kid!" Franky muttered, recognising it as the result of overwhelming physical shock and unnatural mental strain. "He knew what was inside? ..."

"I don't think so! If he had known when the submarine picked us up in the North Sea—I think he would have killed me! He would like to kill me now, he says"—the apple in the boy's throat jerked—"because through me he has been degradiren—reduced from Captain to Supernumerary Officer Pilot—and has had his Third Class of the Red Eagle taken away! That was done at the big Wireless Station—Nordeich, they called it——"

"Nordeich.... Of course ... in German West Friesland. Thrash along—I'm following you. Did they Court Martial the Flying Man?" Franky whispered; and Bawne whispered back:

"The Emperor punished him! ..."

"The Emperor, did you say? ..."

"Yes. He came to Nordeich—in—I've forgotten what they call it when great people want to move about without red carpets and lots of fuss."

"Incognito."

"Incognito. He'd broken off his yachting-trip in Norwegian waters—and landed at Kiel only that day. I heard men whisper it.... He was dressed in the field-grey, like his War Minister von Falkenhayn—-and his generals of the Imperial Staff—and all the other officers and men. But he 'stripped off the War-harness,'—that's what they called it!—before he got into the Potsdam train."

"Go on! ... What did he look like? ... They say he has changed a lot o' late."

"I couldn't tell. I'd only seen photos that made him look younger and hid his short arm. But even if he hadn't sat while the others stood—and worn the Iron Cross, Grand Class—and the Black Eagle with diamond swords and a Crown Imperial—I'd have known it was the Emperor, by his eyes."

"By his eyes, you say! ..."

The boy's heart throbbed visibly, the breath came in short puffs through his nostrils, and his lips were twisted awry as he smiled. The smile stiffened out as he nodded. "By his awful eyes! ... When they looked at you they made you feel tired, and empty, and—queer. But when they got angry—you were reminded of—of a tiger lurking to spring out of a cave of ice!"

"Ah! So he got angry, did he?"

Bawne nodded.

"When I wouldn't answer the questions he asked me—he talked English—about how the brown satchel had come unstrapped and tumbled into the sea. And he said to an officer: 'Show him your whip!'—and he did—and it was short-stocked and covered with leather, like a dog-whip—with three thongs strung with little balls of lead. Man alive! you ought to see my back. Though they only hit me once!" He winced, and flushed, and paled. "I was a coward to squeal—though when they asked: 'Will you tell now?' I did say: 'Not to stop you from killing me!'"

"Good egg you! Great Snipe!—if I'd been there. With a Service Revolver—! Never mind.... Go on!"

"I forget.... Oh!—they pulled on my shirt and gave me some strong stuff to drink. Corn brandy, I think it was—and then He got up and came round the table and began to talk to me. He said I must not be an obstinate boy, for in another few days there would be War. Our pitiful little Army'd be wiped out and our Fleet sent to the bottom of the sea. The British Isles would be Deutsch Brittanien—and English people who would not swear to be good Brito-German subjects of their new Emperor and Overlord would be instantly put to death. But if I told up about the brown satchel I would be permitted to live, and possibly my parents also. If I said No!—nothing would be left but to call back the officer with the whip."

"Coaxin', wasn't he? And what did you tell him?"

"I said: 'You've only said you're going to conquer England, Sir. You haven't done it yet!"

It was not merely the treble voice of a courageous child answering. It was the utterance of a race untamable and indomitable. Franky could hear the metal balls on the whip clink one against another as the loaded thongs were shaken out.... He whispered with dry lips:

"Then——?"

"Then I don't quite know. I was sick and sleepy, and the blood was running down my back under my shirt. If they had killed me I wouldn't have cared much. Perhaps he saw that, for he called up von Herrnung. He was not to be dismissed from the Field Flying Service—because of the War that was coming!—but he was to forfeit his Order of the Red Eagle and rank as a Supernumerary Officer Pilot. Man alive!—you should have seen how that big man squirmed and crawled and blubbered." The young lips curled, and the jaw thrust out contemptuously. "'Thanks! Gratitude! ... My blood to prove devotion! ... All I ask—the service of danger—the reconnaissance under enemy fire!' And the Emperor——"

"Kicked him, I hope!"

"No, he said: 'Supernumerary Officer Pilot von Herrnung you will now to your Flying Headquarters return. Let it be your task to win back at the cost of a thousand lives—if you had them—the lost esteem of your Emperor. Take this boy with you. Make of him a decent German. It is "up to you," as the English say.' And then the Wireless went 'S'ss! Crackle! Pzz!' and the telephone-bell said 'Pr'rr!' and the room was cleared—they said because of a Call from the Winter Palace at Petersburg."

"And where did they take you after you left the Wireless Station? Go on—I'd like to hear you tell!"

The boy glanced round uneasily and then mastered his apprehensions. The grimed hands went to his stocking-top and pulled out a squat little book. The coloured presentment of a Boy Scout adorned its soiled leather cover, and the thumbed leaves of the diary within were pencilled from end to end. The Odyssey of a Saxham Pup, one might have called the story whispered into the ear of the wounded man by the boy squatting at his side.

One had been taken by train to Bremen and thence to a place called Taubefeld, in West Hessen. Flight Station XXX was here on a vast stretch of heath. There were rows of great hangars, and a vast army of motor floats and lorries, upon which machines, hangars, telegraph-installations, workshops, mess-houses, and quarters for officers and mechanics, could be placed when the mobilisation-order came and transported by road or rail.

One had fallen sick at Taubefeld—the effects of that North Sea ducking. One had waked up with a skin-cropped head wondering where one was. A woman who helped in the cookhouse had given one broth and gruel and the medicine prescribed by the doctor. One had crawled off one's straw palliasse weakly and shakily, and so won forth into a new, unfriendly world.

One's parole had been taken—and one was thenceforth free to move about and see things—when one was not wanted to help oil or clean wires or sweep up the hangars. There was grub enough: bacon-soup, potato-salad, and sausage, queer but not uneatable. Nobody was really brutal as long as one didn't speak English, or even German with a British accent, too much at one time. Keine Unterhaltung da! ("No conversation there!") some officer or N.C. would yell at one, and the rebuke was generally accompanied by the swishing cut of a cane.

Consequently the Saxham Pup had bent himself to acquire German, as spoken by Germans, and schooled himself to employ his eyes and ears while maintaining economy in the use of his tongue. He had found out his whereabouts from an envelope he had picked up, and other things from listening to the officers' conversation, and the talk of the mechanics in the big hangars.

War was the thing everybody talked about. There was going to be bloody War in a twinkling. The German Navy was going to smash the British Navy into matchwood, everybody was quite sure. The German Army was going to walk over the miserable little British Army—and then would be expiated the sins of the British Government and the diabolical plottings of Sir Edward Grey. Throat-cuttings, shootings, and hangings were mentioned in connection with the above, and other personages whom British Boy Scouts hold in reverence. But one had had to bear it and hold one's tongue, and keep smiling. That was the method of the Chief who had said to one: "Quit yourself like a man."

Brave advice, possible to follow by day when alien eyes were watching. One could choke down weak tears and the ache of the lonely heart that cried for Home and the dear familiar faces, when the Birds of War were roaring and whirring up the night-field or down out of the sky. But at night, in the grim, unfriendly dark of the sleeping-cupboard, without other witness than the thin, sore-eyed white kitten that shared one's meals and slept beside one on the hard straw mattress under the foul-smelling grey blanket,—things were harder. One had got through, after a fashion, by "rotting" and making believe. One did not set down in the Scout's Note-Book or tell the wounded friend on the stretcher how one had kissed the back of one's own hand, and whispered, "Good-night, Mother!" and touched one's cheek with the tips of two fingers and whispered, "Good-night, and God keep and bless you, my darling boy!"

Amongst other things of interest picked up by day, one found out that Supernumerary Officer Pilot von Herrnung was cold-shouldered by the officers of the Flight Squadron, which he had captained before his fall. No longer top-dog, he was made to pay for his domineering and swaggering. He resented this, by swaggering more. The men talked of this in the hangars, as they tuned-up wires or cleaned the engines. Von Herrnung was Unglücklich. Nobody liked him. The Squadron would not stand him long. Hadn't he insulted the Herr Squadron-Captain Pilot who had succeeded and challenged him, and got his cartel back again?

"Colossal insolence!" he had fumed. "A challenge from a person of my rank confers an honour on him who receives it. Not a man among you stands upon my level. Deny it if you can!"

"True, very true!" the Lieutenant-Observer who had brought back the challenge was reputed to have retorted. "Not a man among us has ever been degraded, therefore, Herr Supernumerary Officer, you stand alone. And we of the Field Flight do not regard your presence among us as a distinction. You may possibly conceive that?"

He had said it just as though he had had a stink under his nose, according to the narrator. And he had dropped von Herrnung's letter on von Herrnung's table, wiped his fingers ostentatiously upon his handkerchief, given the ghost of a salute—wheeled and gone out. After that the whilom favourite of Fortune had turned sullen and solitary, and developed such desperate recklessness that men funked to fly with him. Subsequently the Bird of War hovering-gear having, after due examination by Government experts, been relinquished to its captor, he had had the mechanism adapted to a Taube monoplane, and thenceforward made Her Dearest the sharer of his flights.

You are to suppose Bawne snatching fearful joys in the realisation of cherished ambitions. Loathing and fearing, he yet admired the big red-haired man, so superbly brave in the air that seemed his natural element. Equally the man, detesting the child, grudgingly acknowledged his courage and obedience. No queerer companionship may have been than this between the Enemy, and the son of Saxham and Lynette.

When the Flight Squadron shifted to Aix-la-Chapelle, a huge seething caldron of military preparation,—"Does England declare War against us?" people asked the Flight officers. "It is probable," they answered, "Gott sei danke!" Upon the Third of August, starting at night, Bawne had made a long flight with the Enemy. At midnight the Taube had hovered over a great, beautiful city twinkling with millions of electric lights.

"That is Brussels you see down there," shouted von Herrnung through the voice-tube. "The city is en fête because of the agreement arrived at between the Emperor and the Belgian King. That means England has lost a friend, and made another enemy. Do you understand, little English swine?"

And von Herrnung, who had brought a Wireless outfit, had busied himself in picking up messages from a low-powered installation at the German Embassy and transmitting them to Somebody, high in authority, who waited at Berlin. He had grown more and more peeved as he went about his business, Bawne could not tell why but Franky understood quite well.

Belgium had not been content that the Red Cock should perch upon her British neighbour's roof, while her own house remained unscathed by fire. Franky smiled, knowing this to have been the burden of the song sung by the tuned sparks. Broad day had found the big city humming with mobilisation, enormous placards printed in the National Colours, with: "BELGIUM REFUSES!" and "ROI, LOI, LIBERTÉ," posted in all the public places—and a park of heavy Artillery concentrated round the Etterbeek Barracks, as von Herrnung had flown back to Aix-la-Chapelle on the morning of August 4th.

Bawne went on:

The Flight Squadron had been attached to a Field Artillery Division of the Second Corps, under a General named von Kluck. A huge man he, with a square head and a big mouth full of broken teeth. Bawne had previously seen him at the Wireless Station where he had been taken on landing from the submarine.

They had seen little of the aviation-base, from the beginning of hostilities. The Powers that Were had promptly taken von Herrnung at his word. For him were the long-distance flights, the delicate and risky missions, the dangerous reconnaissances over the Allied batteries. Driven by that gadfly of desire to regain the lost distinctions, he seemed to have lost all sense of fear and to bear a charmed life.

Thus, while von Kluck's Advance was opposed at Mons by the stubborn thrust of the British Forces, the Buzzard earned his nickname by his tireless quest for Death. It eased his grudge against mankind to hunt men—and he hunted; hovering and observing, wirelessing and spotting, utilising one machine for many purposes,—in those days when War Flying was as yet in its infancy—sniped at by the sharpshooters of four out of seven British Divisions—often waging, with automatic pistol and Krupp machine-gun, fierce battles with other Paladins of the Wing, on the boundless lists of air.

How many times the boy's heart had cried for pity when some brave bird crippled by a spout of lead, or fired by an explosive bullet, had gone spinning earthwards, showing the Three Crosses of the Union Jack, or the blue-white-red circles of France's tricolour—or the red-black-yellow of the Belgian Flag upon its upper and under-wings as it fell.

They had bombed Paris two days before, and bombed Ypres that morning, starting from a Flying Base near the city of Bruges. Bawne knew the place was Ypres because it was marked in red on the roller-map. The British General Headquarters were supposed to be there. All the bombs had been used except two, and the Enemy must have forgotten to get rid of these before he landed. He was generally careful, but not so when he drank much. And lately he had drunk a good deal, there was so much wine in the country. He had come down and gone into the restaurant to quest for food and champagne. If he found, he would eat hugely and drink heavily, and then sleep himself sober. He always slept after a bout before taking to the air again. But sometimes when he had mixed drinks he got savage instead of sleepy, and then——

"Do you mean that he thrashes you?" Franky interjected here.

"Rather! Just look!"

There were bright red, newly-made weals and brown and purplish old ones on the little muscular, boyish arm from which the speaker stripped the sleeve.

"My back and legs are lots worse," he volunteered with the air of a showman. "I sometimes think he'd like to kill me. But he won't"—the blue eyes were shrewd under the white-streaked forelock—"because of what the Emperor said."

"'Take the boy with you and make of him a decent German.' For fear of your being sent for, he— Yes, I understand! ... My Christmas!" Franky whispered, opening his haggard eyes, and the fire that burned in them scorched up the water, "If I only had the use of this bashed-up body I'd jolly soon put the fear of God into the howling brute!" His uncertain hand fumbled about the butt of his Webley and Scott revolver. "Shoot him—and make tracks for Headquarters with you in his Taube. Can't fly for monkey-nuts though. Can you?"

"A little." There was a lightening of pleasure in the sombre depths of the blue eyes. "He lets me do plain, straight flying when he's sending Wireless, or photographing or observing. I've never started from the ground yet, or done a landing, though I'm sure I could if I tried. He has shown me lots and lots. And I do what he tells me." The forehead knitted under the ragged piebald forelock. "He bluffs about shooting me if I don't obey. But before I drink brandy or do other things that are blackguardly—or throw bombs on the British and the Allies, he shall kill me! I've told him—and he knows I'll keep my word."

"I pipe. And can't you manage to do a flip on your own," came back in the nearly extinguished voice from the sunken chest of the helpless figure on the blood-soaked stretcher. "One o' these fine days when von Thingamy isn't wide? What's to hinder your getting away now and pushing South to meet the British Advance-guard? We blew up the bridge when we left the town, but it's up to you to swim the river. Or cross with a barrel or a plank."

"Yes. And I've often planned to bunk it! But—Man alive!—he's frightfully clever. He knows a Scout sticks to his Word of Honour—and he always asks for my Parole."

"F'f! That's a poser, old son." Franky considered. "If I were in your shoes I'd take to givin' the strictly limited parole. Two hours—or three—or four.... There's a chance if the time expires without renewal—of being able to—perpetuate a strictly honourable bunk. So, best Kid, live in hopes and watch out for chances, and one day——"

The speaker's voice trailed off into indistinctness. A deadly vertigo came upon him. He sank amidst swirling waves of grey nothingness, to emerge after æons, to consciousness of the morning sunshine, and the warm rain dropping on his clammy cheek and hand.

"Oh, oh! I thought you were dead!" It was the wailing voice he had heard long ages back. "Like all the other people.... The poor men and women and the little children——"

"Dead! Not a bit of it! Only shamming for a drink," Frankly whispered, as the cup with its blessing of cool water revisited his baked lips: "Look here. Where did you tell me your Flying Devil was?"

The boy said, with a scared glance through the breached front wall of the baker's parlour, out into the street where the golden sunshine played upon War's havoc and desolation:

"I said he went into the restaurant in the square where the—the dead people are piled up—to hunt about for wine."

"I remember. What's that?"

The gaunt eyes rolled towards the yawning gap where once had been the window. The white lips whispered, "Did you hear? I'll swear somebody laughed."

Both held their breath. Not a sound reached them except the sliding of some débris from a pile of shattered masonry, and the gurgling of the water in the broken street-main. Franky mustered breath and went on:

"And now shake hands and scoot, my son, for this spot isn't healthy. Say 'Good-bye and God bless you!' And—if you didn't mind—you might kiss me"—the uninjured hand lifted clumsily and pointed—"here on my forehead.... Steady on! Hold hard! Thumbs up, old man!"

For sobs were racking the thin young frame, and the bright tears were running. He gasped out:

"I—I—can't go away and leave you—to—to die all alone!"

Die....

The dreadful word, at last, dropping with a dull shock through the wounded man's consciousness as a heavy stone sinks through deeps of black water. Swirling rings of mist in Franky's brain, threatened to close down and blot out all things. He thrust back the grey menace of unconsciousness with a brave effort, whispering:

"Die.... Rats! What are you—talking about? It's me for the gay life every time! All I've—got to do is to lie here—and—wait until they fetch me.... They're coming—before to-morrow morning—give you my solemn word!"

"You're sure?"

"Dead sure. Look here—can you remember my name was Norwater? Captain, First Battalion Bearskins Plain?" The stumbling voice went on as the boy nodded: "Well then, I'd like you to put in a word for me when you say your prayers, sometimes. I might have a little chap of my own, by-and-by, to do that for his Pater. What's this, best child?"

A black wooden Crucifix with the Figure of Our Lord in white plaster was being held close to the dimming eyes.

"It's a Crucifix. I think it must have fallen down from the room that was above here. Won't you keep it—to help you through the night-time—just as the one on my Rosary helps me? ..."

"Good egg! Do you pray to it—and kiss it?"

"We pray—not to it, but to Our Lord who died for us and lives in Heaven. We kiss it—because even if it isn't pretty it is His Image—and has been blessed by a priest."

"Wipe my mouth first, please. You'll find—hanky in my pocket. Thanks!" He asked, after his discoloured lips had touched the Feet of the Crucified: "Isn't there something one ought to say? A prayer—or something! Not much time now—before they fetch me. Tell quick—what words say!"

"You couldn't have anything better than Our Father. Our Lord made that prayer Himself. But there are lots of others. The little ones are easiest. Say: 'Jesu, have mercy upon me!'"

The weak voice came stumbling after.

"Jesu, have mercy on me!"

"Jesu, help me!"

"Jesu, help me!"

"O Thou who didst die for sinful men upon the Cross, have mercy upon me a sinner!"

The glassy eyes stared upwards and past the boy, and a thin scarlet thread began to trickle from the corner of his mouth....

"O Thou who didst die—upon the Cross—mercy—me a sinner!"

The stumbling voice trailed away into silence. The glazing eyes, meeting Bawne's, said plainly: "Now go!" And as the boy, blind with tears, turned in obedience to their order, a dull flame leaped into them. They had seen the tall half-length of a big man, panoplied in the goggled helmet and pneumatic jacket of the aviator, bulking in the window-gap, even before Bawne knew that the Enemy was there.

CHAPTER LXIV

AT SEASHEERE

The narrow white footpath had suddenly led nowhere. Patrine had found herself standing at the edge of a four-foot bluff, looking down upon a grassy plateau that gently sloped to the brink of the cliffs. A wire fence enclosed an aggregation of stone-grey wooden buildings dominated by a flagstaff and the latticed steel tower of a Wireless installation. The White Ensign flapped lazily from the halyards of the flagstaff, there were three hangars at a little distance away. A row of seaplanes sat on the grass before them, and some figures of men in overalls or the familiar Naval uniform moved in and out and about the machines busily as ants. Where the grassland stopped at the cliff-edge the roofs of other hangars showed, that were built upon the shingle. A little way out beyond the line of foam where the long green lips of the sea mumbled at the wet pebbles, another row of seaplanes lashed to buoys, rocked like gulls drowsing after a gorge of fish. And far out to sea, where the heavy trails of smoke bannering from the funnels of rushing grey hulls betokened the War activities of the Fleet in the Channel, and the conning-towers of big submarines sometimes pretended to be little stocky steamers sitting on the swell, two strange bat-like things rose and circled and swooped, and were hidden in grey-blue mists to rise again, and swoop and circle.... And a little dinghy with two blue figures in it was pulling out from the beach in the direction of the anchored planes.

"Beg pardon! But—aren't you Miss Saxham?"

She craned her long neck, looking for the speaker, and found him in a youthful Flight Sub-Lieutenant, who, standing below the grassy bluff, was looking up with very brown eyes at the tall figure in the narrow skirt of tan, white and rose-pink chequers, the low-cut blouse of guipure lace, and the knitted silk coat of rose-pink. Buckled pumps adorned the well-arched feet, clad with navy blue silk stockings of liberal open-work. She sported a buff sunshade lined with rose, and a hat of rough tan straw, trimmed with quills of navy blue and rose-pink, sat coquettishly on the beech-leaf hair. She gave the boy one of her wide smiles, evading the "Yes" by nodding, and with a cat-like leap and scramble, he was up the grassy bluff and standing before her, blushing and saluting and holding out a scribbled paper-pad.

"For me?"

"For you—if you're Miss Saxham. It's a Wireless came this morning—from your—from a great friend of yours. Somewhere in France."

"Oh—thank you!"

She pulled off a loose buff glove and stretched a large white hand for the paper-pad. The message ran:

"6 a.m. Now leaving Compiegne for Calais. Seasheere in five hours, barring accident. All my love to you. Alan."

And the Lieutenant had thought her pale.... She kissed the paper and smiled at him bewilderingly. "Lucky beggar, Sherbrand," thought the Lieutenant. "What a glorious woman!" He extorted from Patrine, who would not be twenty until next August, the penalty for being built on a grander scale than other daughters of Eve. But she was asking:

"Whom have I to thank for bringing Mr. Sherbrand's message?"

"Flight Sub-Lieutenant Dareless—and the thanks are quite on my side." He phrased the trite civility punctiliously, while the bold brown eyes beamed and twinkled: "For you're IT," they said; "just—clippingly—IT!"

"How did you know me?" began Patrine.

"Picked you up through the binnics from the bridge, ten minutes ago." The slim brown hand flourished, indicating a T-square-shaped space of well-watered turf marked off in whitewash lines upon the green aërodrome below. "We call things by their proper names so as not to lose touch, you understand? The short stretch is the Bridge, and the long strip aft at right angles—that's the Quarter-deck. The big hut No. 1 is our Wardroom—the Wing-Commander's cabin is divided off from it. The officers' cabins are in the small hut, No. 2, and the Warrant Officers and men divide No. 3. Of course we keep watches and post sentries—just as if we were at sea. That Territorial on guard near is relieving a man of ours, do you see?" He jerked his chin towards the moving brown figure. "What have we to guard? Oh, well, the hangars, and our Wireless"—another jerk indicating the latticed steel mast surmounting a telegraph hut wedded to a vibrating dynamo-shed. "We get reports from our patrols—most of 'em are fitted with radio-apparatus—and we receive and transmit messages. Long distance? Well, rather! We're frightfully swanky about our Wireless plant. It's Number One, H.P. Not big, but jolly powerful. A——"

Six clear, silvery double-notes had sounded from a brass bell, hung beneath a little white-painted penthouse sitting on the blue strip of shadow on the westward side of the Wardroom hut. The Petty Officer who had rung the bell exchanged a brief word with the Territorial, and went back to the hangars from whence he had emerged. Patrine, with her heart in her mouth, asked the Sub-Lieutenant:

"Was that a signal?"

"Only ship-time," said the brown-eyed one. "Six bells. Eleven A.M. And our man ought to be looming up in sight. He might hit Seasheere now at any minute. In fact, he's nearly an hour late."

"You don't—you don't suppose——?"

Fear had pinched and drawn and bleached her so that she looked forty behind her white veil with blue chenille dragonflies. Her pale mouth twitched and her black brows knotted over the haunted eyes that strained out to sea. The paper-pad, crunched to a mere wad, dropped from the hand that unconsciously released it. The boy picked it up, thrilled by this peep behind the scenes of another's romance.

"No, no! There's no fear of an accident, Miss Saxham. Perhaps a bit o' engine-trouble—you've got to travel slowish if she vibes too much. Or he might have spotted an Aviatik and delayed to have a biff at him—on the principle that ten Hun-birds make an evener bag than nine. We know what a terror he's getting to be with the Maxim. But what puts the fear of God into the flighty Taube quicker than anything is our R.N.A.S. Vickers' gun."

Ah, did he know how horribly he tortured her! But a grey speck showed upon the delicately-misty distance eastwards, growing bigger, coming nearer, putting miles of green white, heaving water under its throbbing engine with effortless speed. Her glance leaped to Dareless, studying the oncomer between narrowed lids, and the hope that had kindled in her died out as he shook his head.

"One of ours, on the Home-flight from Belgium, Miss Saxham. Your man will pick up much higher, and to the south-east."

And presently the latest type of Fleet hydroplane, a two-seater Batboat carrying two bareheaded young gentlemen, moaned into view, chasing its own wave-skipping, flying shadow at full stretch for the shore, came down in a long mallard-like glide, skidding over the water as the wild-duck does, and in a ruffle of glittering spray, continued the home-journey in the character of a motor-boat.

Then there was a sharp squib-like crack, and from one of the anchored hydroplanes, a rocket went up and burst in a smoke-puff that hung in a little cloud of violet-grey upon the sunny air, and from the hangars on the shingle under the bluff streamed figures in blue overalls or grimy shirt-sleeves, and cheered and waved, standing ankle-deep in refluent water, topped with creamy sheets of foam. As the Batboat with her joyous navigators rushed spluttering to the shallow anchorage and tied up beside the Station planes, megaphones bellowed, motor-horns tooted, somebody banged on the ship's bell, a cornet struck up "Rule Britannia!" very much out of tune....

"Well done, you two beggars! Oh! well done!" trumpeted Dareless, through his hollowed hands, and turned a beaming face on Patrine to explain that the hatless navigators of the Batboat were Lieutenants of a Flight stationed at Antwerp, and had shared in the Air Raid on the Zeppelin-sheds at Düsseldorf—early on the previous day.

And then a droning song had come drifting down out of the sky to the south-eastward with a buzzing undernote in it that Patrine remembered well. Dareless had lifted his head for a rapid upward reconnaissance, and said with a flash of white teeth in his brown face:

"Thumbs up, Miss Saxham!—this is your particular bird!"

And Patrine had seen, small and high, and shining palely golden in the sunlight, the shape of the biplane that carried her lover, and her heart knocked twice in her bosom, heavily, as they knock behind the curtain before they ring up at the Comedie Française. A Clery's signalling-pistol had cracked and been answered from the Air-Station. Mechanics in overalls had appeared upon the green. Then the buzzing had stopped, and the second Bird of War, rising higher to escape the backwash of light airs from the cliffs, had launched into a splendid sweeping spiral, ending in a long glide, and alighted on the well-rolled Station aërodrome—and Sherbrand had come home.

Surely never until the thought of Flight,—formed in the brain-cells of Man and fertilised by the lust of Adventure,—hatched out in the Bird that bears the Knight of To-day upon the air-path, did lover return to his lady after a fashion so wonderful as this.

The Flying Men have always been coming. In the Book of Books you will read of them. Ecclesiasticus, the Preacher, foretold of the day when a Bird of the Air should carry the Voice, and That Which Hath Wings should tell the matter; and how these Winged ones rush and roar through the prophetic pages of Ezekiel and Daniel, you have but to open them to learn. Their shapes like locusts, their armoured bodies with great-eyed headpieces "like those of horses prepared unto battle," the noise made by their wings in flight "like the noise of chariots and horses running to battle," the wheels beneath their wings, the human faces appertaining to them, the inward fire that issues from them in scorching vapours,—are described with fiery eloquence in the Apocalypse of the Apostle of St. John, when the Fifth Angel sounds the Trumpet, and the King whose name is Exterminans, the Destroyer, reaches the culminating point of his terrific reign upon earth.

Flight makes the world no more joyful, being mainly used for purposes of destruction, but nothing can rob the Flying Man of his shining gloriole of Romance. The boy who was building toy aëroplanes of card and elastic a few years back has rediscovered the Flying Dragon of the Cretaceous period, broken and tamed the winged monster into a War steed, and thundered down the forgotten roads of the Pterodactyl and the Rukh, to reap shining honours upon the battlefields of the mutable Air. And if the girl who chaffed the boy of old worships him to-day as St. George, Sir Lancelot, Sir Galahad, and Le Bon Sieur de Bayard rolled into one, who shall blame her? Not I, for one!

In the instant of reunion, when the tall brown figure came swinging to meet her, and the strong hard hands gripped her own, Patrine loved him more than ever. Sherbrand's was not a romantic greeting, but it thrilled her nevertheless.

"They've asked us to lunch here, but it's ready at the Cottage. Shall we accept? It's for you to decide."

His tone had indicated his keen desire for the tête-à-tête in preference. Disappointment had shadowed his clear eyes when Patrine had voted for luncheon at the Air Station, inwardly longing to be alone with him—to be alone.

And yet, despite the longing, the haunting sense of a sword of Fate hanging over her, Patrine found the Wardroom lunch a jolly banquet. They were so young, those sunburnt faces, laughing about the plainly-furnished board. The Wing-Commander in charge of the Station proved to be something under thirty. To Patrine, occupying the place of honour on his right hand, he did the honours like a veteran. One of the navigators of the Batboat sat upon her other side, and Sherbrand was her vis-à-vis.

Sherbrand was altered. She knew him older, harder, sterner.... Thinner to the verge of haggardness, with a deep vertical furrow graved between the thick eyebrows that made a bar of blonde fairness against the red of his deeply-burned skin. He had gone away a splendid youth. Now he returned with two silvery-yellow stars on the cuffs and shoulder-straps of his khaki tunic, a man seasoned and tempered as a bar of steel in the furnace-blast of War.

The pleasant meal ended, and the jolly party broke up. Their hosts accompanied them to the gate of the Station enclosure, and the warmth and heartiness of Naval tradition had been in the farewells that had sped the departing guests upon their way:

"Au revoir! All happiness!"

"So-long! We'll look after the 'plane all right!"

"Adios! Buenas noches!"

"Sayonara!"

"Siéda!"

"Good-bye and good luck! Now all together.... Hip—hip—" and a rousing British cheer.

CHAPTER LXV

GOOD-BYE, DEAR LOVE, GOOD-BYE!

They had looked back to smile and wave their thanks, and an aged tennis-shoe, scientifically hurled by Dareless, had knocked the cap out of Sherbrand's upraised hand, and raised a cloud of chalky dust from the surface of the sunken road. Under cover of this they had crossed the road and climbed a slope together and found themselves standing in heavenly loneliness, with the sea beside them and their feet upon the thymy grasses blotted by the short shadows of their tall figures, under the almost vertical sun.

"Look!" Sherbrand had said, pointing to a whitewashed, red-tiled cottage cuddled in a hollow some quarter of a mile distant, girt with a gay frivolous little garden full of bachelor's buttons and sunflowers, lavender bushes and nasturtiums yellow and red. He slipped his hand within her arm and pressed it, whispering: "There's our Eden—and my dream has come true!"

Her heart choked her. They moved on together shoulder to shoulder, her elbow resting in the bend of his strong arm, and her hand lying in his. The air they breathed was sweet with heady, nameless fragrance, the burning golden light that haloed them seemed the effluence of their love. Anguish and rapture mingled in the chalice of the perfect hour for Patrine. Nothing but rapture was in the draught for Sherbrand, though a faint fold showed between his eyebrows as he said suddenly:

"Hang it! I've forgotten to ask the Station fellows to give me a night's shakedown. However, there's a decent hotel in Seasheere. My bag is still in the machine, by the way.... Did you send someone on to the cottage with your traps?"

"I——"

She began to falter. It was coming.... But his eagerness delayed the moment of revelation. The track they followed dipped down and they found themselves in a grassy basin. The turf cupped up on every side and they were alone, lidded by the blazing turquoise sky.

At the bottom of the green nest he stopped, and next moment his embrace enveloped her. She forgot, as an answering flame burned in her blood, all the things that she had meant to say. "I'll have my hour," shot through her whirling brain, "I must have something of him to keep in remembrance. He has never loved me—nor I him—so passionately as now. Oh, my God!"

He released her with a happy sigh, and they sat down on the shadowed side of their green nest, a deep dimple in the cheek of the sunny, smiling Earth, and looked in each other's eyes. He said, as she took off her hat and threw it aside and turned her unveiled, unshadowed face back to his:

"Your dear cheeks are thinner, I fancy, Pat. Have you been worrying much about me?"

She nodded, thinking of her sleepless nights passed after reading his few letters, or when his letters had failed to come.

"Pretty badly—in the days of the Retreat from Mons. You piloted that French officer over the Channel and—whiff!—you vanished. What has become of him?"

"Wing Commandant Raymond? He's riding the storm and directing the whirlwind somewhere on the French Front. I got my orders to join the R.F.C.-unit acting with a rearguard battery of the Second Army Corps as soon as I'd dumped him. As for the work with the battery, it was always the same thing. We flew out against von Kluck's advance, spotting their gun-emplacements and getting the range for our gunners. And under us a dark-brown river with five branches rolled South. And that was the Retreat."

His arm was round her, her cheek was pressed to his, her bosom heaved against him. She turned her lips to his in a quick kiss, and whispered:

"And when you came down out of your sky 'like pigeons homing at nightfall'—that's a sentence in one of your letters—d'you recognise it?—the river went on rolling still?"

"Just the same, without a break. And what a—welter. Remnants of crack infantry brigades tangled with the rags of cavalry squadrons—grimy, hairy, ragged chimney-sweeps with bandaged feet and empty bellies, and blackened tongues hanging out, and blind, blank, staring eyes.... Imagine all the toy soldier outfits in the kiddy-shops of Regent Street emptied into the gutters and you'll get an idea of what the thing was like.... And Transport and Supply-columns jumbled with bits of R.G.A. batteries and R.F.A.—three dying horses to a howitzer, and one gunner left out of six! Bands of refugees and troops of stragglers. Lunatics led along howling and gibbering. Lorries, carts, and motor-vans crammed with swollen-footed cripples—cheek by jowl with bloody spectres evacuated from Field Hospitals that were reddening the sky with their burning in the rear. A day-and-nightmare to haunt one for ever if the end had been different—" He caught his breath. "But when I remember that we straightened the muddle—brought Order out of Chaos—turned on the Germans and bit to the bone—I pray that the memory may stay with me always, so that I may teach your sons and mine what it means to be Englishmen!"

"Oh, Alan! My poor boy! ..." She caught him in her arms with sudden passion, strained him to her and then freed herself from him, and moved away, signing to him that he must not approach. "What you hope for can never be! I'd have told you this before if I'd been decent, but I wanted your kisses—I was hungry for the touch of you—and the sound of your voice in my ears after all these weeks and weeks——"

"Then why do you say it can never be—and tell me in the same breath that you long for me and love me?" His light brows were drawn into a heavy line over his stern grey eyes. "Aren't you and I going to be married? Is it possible that you'd draw back—now?"

"Because your wife should be a pure woman, and I am not, it is possible. Don't move! Don't come nearer! If you do I'll never have the courage to tell—what must be told!"

And he had sat still, as a figure in carved khaki-coloured stone with his knees apart and his knotted hands hanging between them, and his eyes, curiously hard and pale against the strong red sunburn of his face, fixed immovably upon her mouth. When she ended there had been a great silence; and she had looked up at the azure dome lidding their green nest, wondering why the burning, perfumed breeze had suddenly turned cold. His voice recalled her:

"Why have you told me this?"

"To be honest." She hugged her knees. "To give you a chance for freedom before you were handicapped with me for life, poor boy!"

"And how do you suppose it makes me feel?" He breathed roughly, and gritted his teeth, wringing his hands in one another so strongly that the knuckles started death-white against the reddened skin. She heard herself saying lamely:

"I knew you'd be horribly sick about it and hate me!"

"I don't hate you. But I want to kill him! He took you to that damnable place and—" He bit his lip and swallowed. "How long was that before I met you at Hendon? Three days—and our day of meeting—the meeting I thanked God for!—was July 18th. This is October—the 14th—to be particular. You must know what I'm driving at. Is there—any danger——"

She said in a level voice, looking at him steadily:

"I have deserved it—but I think God is going to be kinder to me than to—punish me in that way." Her eyes flickered and fell from his. "It was because—I was so awfully afraid at first that I made up my mind to marry you. And now—and now you know the very worst of me."

"Hardly the worst." He drew breath roughly, and the cloud upon his forehead lightened a little. "We'd have been man and wife before I flew for France—if you'd let me have my way. Why didn't you?"

"I—Oh!—It seemed so mean.... A kind of child-stealing. You were so unsuspecting, and so generous, and so clean!" She bit her lips, and the tears welled over her underlids.... "You shamed me into being straight with you. I'd loved you from the beginning. But it was as though my love had left off crawling and grown a pair of wings."

"Answer me straight." He turned so as to face her. "Did you ever love that German?"

"To my shame be it spoken—never for an instant! After that night at the Upas I hated him unspeakably. Only when I thought he was dead, I began to let up a little on the hate."

He looked at his hands and unknotted them and knotted them, and said suddenly:

"You may be interested to know that he is not dead, but very much the other thing. He is scouting and spotting for von Kluck's gunners on their south and west Fronts, and sometimes bombing positions he has skried out—and doing it all superbly, damn him! He has been degraded to the rank of a Supernumerary Flying officer for some breach of duty that got to the Kaiser. And he has evidently made his mind up to make good in this War. They pick him for all the dangerous missions. He seems unkillable—and we've tried our hardest. And wherever he goes—until now I've kept this from you—he takes—the Saxhams' son!"

"Bawne! ..."

She shaped the name dumbly, with lips that were pale as poplar leaves. "God forgive me!" her conscience whispered. "How little I have thought of Bawne!"

"Yes. I mean Bawne!"

So odd was the contrast between the speaker's grim, set face and the bald simplicity of his language, that her white lips twitched with a crazy desire to laugh, as he added:

"I've been keen for a long time on coming across the man who pinched my hawk-hoverer and kidnapped my friend's son—and putting the fear of God into him with an automatic revolver, or a Maxim.... But now that I know—this!"—the deadly contempt in the voice is inconveyable—"a clean death hardly meets his case. Good cartridges seem wasted in killing that fellow. One wants to set one's heel down—hard on him—and scrunch!"

He had sat silent, staring before him yet a moment longer. Then he gathered himself together and got up from the grass, glanced at his wrist-watch and said, holding out his hand to assist her in rising:

"Well, let's be going. It's half-past three. They'll expect us to tea at the cottage. By the way, you haven't told me. Did you send on your bag from the station when you came?"

She shuddered violently, and leaped up without touching the offered hand. The west was all dappled with tiny pearly cloudlets, their shadows were lengthening momentarily, the salt smell of the sea was on the breeze that came in languid puffs. But the wine of joy that had brimmed their green bowl had been emptied out by her own hand, and the draught now held to her flinching mouth was bitterer than hemlock and blacker than Styx. That change in his face and voice—

"What do you suppose? I brought no bag. I am going home by the next train." She glanced at a little jewelled wrist-watch he had given her and back at the mask-like face, that said:

"You mean we part here, for good! Is that it?"

"For good—or bad. My poor boy——"

He put her "poor boy" from him with a gesture of the hand. He asked in a flat, toneless voice:

"Am I a blackguard like von Herrnung? You came down here to marry me. What will be said afterwards—if——"

"I'm past caring what people think or say!" she flashed at him angrily. "I've told you that I will not marry you!—that I'm not fit to be your wife. Oh! if you suppose it didn't hurt——"

A rush of tears drowned out his altered visage. She turned away, fighting for composure, summoning all her woman's pride to help her at her need. That swaying grace, that alluring physical perfection—had never appealed to Sherbrand's senses so irresistibly....

"Patrine!"

She heard his eager footsteps following her. She was snatched into his masterful embrace, assailed by his stormy kisses, wooed by his passionate words of love beyond her power to resist. The flood in the veins of both was rising, the force of the warm rushing torrent was bearing them away, she cared not whither, so that she might keep those arms about her still.

"Patrine! My woman of women—do you think I'd let you go from me? Not I! I'll have you for my wife whether you will or no! We'll forget—all that! We'll be happy in spite of it. Won't we?"

"No!" she gasped out.

"We will, I tell you!" He laughed out with ringing triumph and bent his head, seeking her evasive mouth with his own. Hard pressed she had panted:

"Don't ask me to marry you! I'd never, never do it! Unless you were poor and sick and a nobody—and wanted a woman to nurse and work for you.... Then—the wag of a finger or the wind of a word would bring me to you. But—I swear it before God!—I won't marry you as you are!"

"You will!"

"I've sworn I won't. But—" She had whispered it in a kiss of fire—"I will give you—what that other man took!"

And Sherbrand had uttered a hoarse sound like a sob, and unwound her arms from about his neck, and said, holding her hands close in his and looking sternly in her swimming eyes:

"I'm no saint, God knows!—but I'm a better man than to take what you offer. Halloa! That's Davis. What's up now?"

A distant whistle had made him prick his ears. He whistled back and ran lightly up to the brink of the grassy punch-bowl in time to meet the little black-avised Welshman—hero of the Paris episode in connection with the girl with the goo-goo eyes. Davis had handed him a paper-pad. Sherbrand had read it, scrawled a reply on the blank side to be dispatched by the Station's Wireless, and hurried back to Patrine.

"We—couldn't have been married to-morrow anyway. The man who undertook to replace me while I went on leave has been killed doing reconnaissance on our new Front in North-West France. I'm recalled."

"Recalled?"

He nodded. The British Force had been deftly transferred from its position on the Aisne to a base at St. Omer, you will remember, thus blocking the Calais Gate. The New Offensive was taking shape. Sherbrand had continued:

"So—if you're to catch the three-fifty from Fearnchurch to Charing Cross—we'll have to run!"

And as the screech of a distant engine had sounded from the direction of Fearnchurch Station, he had caught up the veiled hat and thrust it upon Patrine, grabbed her thin rain-coat and vanity bag and sunshade, and hurried her back to the flinty railway-station by the way she had come. And with the banging of the carriage-door, her woman's heart had broken. She had felt it bleeding drip, drip, drip! as Sherbrand's tall bare head and grave sad eyes had receded out of sight.

And the train had been delayed at the next station, waiting for the passage of a troop-train crammed with eager faced young men of Kitchener's Army, concrete answers to the famous Call to Arms and the First Five Questions—nearly half an hour. So that rounding the curve beyond the last signal-cabin for the clanking journey through the short tunnel, Patrine had seen, some miles to seaward of the glittering white prow of the North Foreland, a biplane with its wings reddened by the sunset, flying south-east.

"Oh! good-bye, Alan!" she had whispered, knowing that she would never see her Bird of War again. He had been caught and dragged back into the fiery whirl of the cyclone without the hope that nerves and supports and brings adventurers back. Sorrowful and stern, baulked of his heart's desire, grimly bent on meeting von Herrnung, and wreaking retribution for a horrible wrong, upon the red head of the Kaiser's Flying Man.

CHAPTER LXVI

MORE KULTUR

The boy's slight figure seemed to shrink upon itself as the stony eyes looked at him, and the teeth showed under the red moustache, not tightly curled now, but stiffened and pointing to the eyes. Von Herrnung set a foot upon the broken wall and leaped into the baker's parlour, staggering slightly as he alighted amongst the rubbish on the broken floor. He had been drinking, but not to excess, for the restaurant-cellars having been thoroughly gutted by his countrymen, the wreckage of the bar behind which Madame had sat, busy with her embroidery, had yielded barely a half-tumbler of Cognac and a single bottle of Champagne.

Having drunk enough to spur memory and not to lull his snarling grievances to slumber, he had come forth to blunt the tooth of his bitter hatred on the boy. For, since that queer tickling, pleasurable sensation experienced in his first tantalization of Bawne's hunger, every new weal marked upon the wincing body, every fresh bruise inflicted on the shuddering soul of Her Dearest, imparted to von Herrnung a ferocious pleasure in comparison with which mere vicious indulgence palled.

"So, there you are, little English pig-dog," he said in German, as the blue eyes met his own and fell away before them and the colour sank out of the young face. "Get you back to the Market-platz there and wait for me. I have some business with your friend."

He stretched out a long arm, picked up the boy by the slack of his garments, and with a turn of the wrist dropped him into the street. His ears were pricked for the cry that should follow the slight scrambling fall of the light body on the rubbish. It failed to come, and he frowned. Presently— Meanwhile here was game of a larger kind. He looked down from his superb height upon the bloodstained figure in the stretcher. Its eyes were closed, and the haggard face beneath the grime and bristles had the yellowish-white of old wax. He spoke to it harshly, in his English, and the brownish lids split apart and the gaunt sick eyes glimmered up at him. But no reply came from the livid lips. He rapped his foot sharply on the floor, repeating:

"I suppose you know you are my prisoner, sir?" and a strange spasm of mingled amusement and irony twitched the muscles of the haggard mask. The faded negatives of eyes regarded him with the ghost of a smile in them. The dissolving voice said in tones no louder than a sigh:

"Possibly. But not—for long!"

The voice stopped short. As von Herrnung took a step nearer to the stretcher, his toe stubbed against and caught in the strap of a leather case lying on the littered floor. He picked up the case and smiled as he drew out a costly pair of Zeiss binoculars. His own, though hailing from the Jena workshop, only magnified to 12x. These registered 25x. On the metal rim of the larger lense was engraved the style and title of the owner: "Capt. Rt. Hon. Viscount Norwater, Royal Bearskins Plain."

A find in the dual sense. He restored the binoculars to their case, unbuckled the strap and slipped it under his heavy bandolier of cartridges, hanging the case beside his own, loosened the upper stud-clips that fastened his goggled helmet, and pushed it back so as to reveal his whole face. The gaunt eyes were open, looking at him attentively. He asked them:

"May it not be that we have met before? In Paris, yes? On the night of the Grand Prix. At the Hotel Spitz, ja, ja, gewiss! A dinner given by Sir Thomas Brayham for Lady Wathe and a few friends. You were one of the friends. I another. How is the old woman, do you know?"

Kreutzdonnerwetter! what inconceivable insolence! The eyes looked through him as though he had not been there. His hard blue eyes, already injected with blood, grew savage, and a purplish tinge suffused his florid skin. He reflected an instant, pulled a capacious silver spirit-flask from the deep side-pocket of his pneumatic, half-filled the drinking cup that capped it, and knelt down beside the stretcher, saying quite pleasantly, in his gutturals:

"See, here is some capital Cognac. Let me give you a sip, eh? Then you will feel better." He poured a dram between the teeth, and waited through a spasm of coughing, wiped the blood and mucus from the gasping lips with a rag of the torn clothing, then pulled a stool from amongst the rubbish, sat down near the feet of the wounded man, facing him, and took a long pull of the belauded brandy from the neck of the big flask.

"That does more good than canteen coffee," he said, and sucked his red moustache appreciatively. He set down the flask on the floor between his feet, found his case, and carefully chose a cigar.

"A zigarre? No! You will, then, perhaps not object to my smoking? We of the Field Flight have to comfort ourselves with snuff when in the air. To burn tobacco and blaze up like a star-shell and come down like a charred rocket-stick, that is not at all agreeable or praktisch. Sapperlot! you are not a very amusing companion. Nevertheless, my fellow, I drink to your jolly good health!"

He knocked off the ash of his cigar, cleared his throat, and spat, just clearing Franky's shoulder. The flicker of anger in the sunken eyes brought a glitter of malice into his own. He sent out a long swaggering stream of smoke, and knocked the ash from his cigar with the little finger of his ringed left hand, continuing:

"You see, I have cut the long thumb-nail that amused you when we met in Paris. The Day has come—though you would not join me in drinking to its dawning!—and the German eagle has dipped his claws in English blood. We Prussians have beaten out the iron sceptre of World Power with giant blows upon the War Anvil, and the sun that never set upon the swanky British Empire, has already risen to find the Roast Beef of Old England in danger, and the Triple Entente a bankrupt syndicate." He shrugged and twisted his red moustache, tilted his big body sidewise, and spat at a carefully-calculated angle, missing the other shoulder of the victim as he pursued:

"But you do not know ... Donnerwetter! how should you?—lying here like a stuck pig! Yesterday—in the neighbourhood of Ypres—took place the ultimate, conclusive battle, in which the German mammoth pounded the British Lion into pulp. Your little British Expeditionary Force may be said to exist no longer. Your Brigade of Guards, who boast that, like the Samurai, they do not surrender while yet unwounded, is practically extinct. Maddened by despair the officers shot the few men who remained and then blew one another's brains out. Your Commander-in-Chief is our prisoner, Sir Rothesay Craig has been killed, also General Callonby and General Jones-Torrian. The French Generalissimo has surrendered, with the 5th French Army. The 6th French Army has been chopped into sausage-meat. So, all is over! Total Kaput!"

"If what you say is Gospel," said the weak voice, and the faded eyes had the ghost of a smile in them, "why do I keep on hearing our guns?"

For the hurly-burly of battle in the South had broken out afresh as though in contradiction. The crazy floor vibrated, the tottering walls shook with the distant fury of sound:

Thud—thud—thud—thud! and the muffled Boom!—Crash! of immense explosions. And through all the steady slogging of Royal Garrison Artillery howitzers, and the tireless, dogged hammering of Field Artillery eighteen-pounders.

"Macht nicht!"

Von Herrnung shrugged contemptuously, though his keen ear did not miss the fact that the guns were coming nearer: "That must go on—for a little!—until the last show of resistance is broken down. If it be a military virtue not to be aware when you are beaten—your big-jawed, dull-brained, short-headed British bull-dogs of soldiers have that virtue, of course. But comes the awakening! The Russian Navy has been blown off the Baltic, the Czar has accepted our Kaiser's ultimatum—the Belgian Government has made its submission—the Belgian Army has laid down its arms. Our 17-inch siege-howitzers are bombarding the shores of England from their emplacements at Calais. The Army of Invasion is embarking—your British Navy—the floating bulwark of your Empire—lies at the bottom of the North Sea. Ministers run from one end of England to the other, begging, coaxing, persuading—your proletariat. There is panic in the English War Office, and despair at Buckingham Palace; rebellion in the streets of London, débâcle in the City, and stampede in the West End. To-morrow the Emperor of Greater Germany and the Crown Prince, Viceroy of the Brito-German Possessions, will, with the Empress enter Paris. Ten miles of films will record for all Posterity this colossal and magnificent scene. The London pageant of triumph follows. Well may you weep, my unlucky fellow, over the collapse and ruin of your proud country"—for tears were really trickling from the puckered eyelids of the now flushed and quivering face. "Himmelkreuzbombenelement! You are not weeping. You are laughing, you dirty English swine!"