Blood and carnage everywhere; earth made hell at the bidding of a bully, a madman who declared himself to be the vicegerent of God. Yes, the horrors of war could not be described in human language, but it had to be waged in order to destroy the hellish doctrine that might was right, the hideous creed of "blood and iron." CHAPTER XVII The English army had, for the time being, occupied the trenches from which they had driven the Germans, and for a moment they were safe. The enemy was moving away towards a distant hill, but a huge rearguard was on the alert. The commanding officer knew that although a slight advantage had been gained, pursuit would be madness, so, taking advantage of the enemies' trenches, they decided to await further events. To Bob, the whole day seemed like a dream. His encounter with the German private was like the memory of some event which had taken place long, long ago. All the same, it was a wonder to him that he was alive and unwounded. All around him lay men in various positions; some never to rise again; some, even if they recovered, to be mutilated for life. Only now and then did the rearguard of the enemy's army reveal its whereabouts, but all knew that thousands of men were waiting for any advantage which might be given to them. The day was fast dying, and whatever little wind there had been had nearly sunk to rest. "Hello, Nancarrow! you here?" "Pickford! Great heavens, man, whoever thought of seeing you!" It was an old school-fellow who spoke to Bob. They had been four years together at Clifton, and Pickford had been on the military side of the school. When Bob had gone up to Oxford, Pickford had left for Sandhurst. They had last seen each other on what they called their breaking-up row at the school. Both of them had been as wild as March hares, and they with a hundred others had yelled like mad at the thought of their school days being over. Now they had met on French soil, amidst carnage and the welter of blood, at the close of a day which would ever live in Bob's memory. "I heard you had refused to enlist, Nancarrow." "Who told you?" "Trevanion: he said you had shown the white feather over the whole business, and pretended to excuse yourself by religious scruples." Bob was silent for a moment; he scarcely knew how to reply. "I told Trevanion he was altogether mistaken in you," went on Pickford; "but he gave such details of your refusal, and described in such graphic language what others had said about you, that it seemed impossible for him to be mistaken. Some girl gave you a white feather, didn't she, at the Public Hall in St. Ia?" "Did Trevanion tell you that?"--and there was anger in Bob's voice. "I thought it was scarcely a sportsmanlike thing to do," said Pickford, noticing the look on Bob's face; "I told him so, too. We were talking about you only last night." "Is Trevanion here, then?"