In the distance rose the spires of Ypres, and the water-tower, useless now for the purpose for which it was built, but still erect on its foundations. The silvery mist of early April hung very lightly over the flat surrounding land, hiding one corner of Vlamertinghe from sight, where the spire of the church still raised its head, as yet unvanquished. A red sun was rising in the East, and beyond Ypres a battle still raged, though nothing to the battle of a few short days before. Hidden batteries spoke now and then, and the roads were a cloud of dust, as men, transport, guns, and many ambulances passed along them. Overhead aeroplanes droned, and now and again shells whistled almost lazily overhead, to fall with a thunderous “crrumph” in Brielen and Vlamertinghe. By the canal there was a dressing-station. The little white flag with its red cross hung listless in the still air. Motor ambulances drove up at speed and departed with their burdens. Inside the dressing-station men worked ceaselessly, as they had been working for days. Sometimes shells fell near by. No one heeded them. Beyond the dressing-station, down the road, the banks of which were filled with little niches hollowed out with entrenching tools, hurried a figure. He was but one of many, but there was that about him which commanded the attention of all who saw him. His spurs and boots were dirty, his uniform covered with stains and dust, his face unshaven. He walked like a man in a dream, yet as of set purpose. Pale and haggard, he strode along, mechanically acknowledging salutes. Arrived at the dressing-station, without pausing he entered, and went up to one of the doctors who was bandaging the remnants of an arm. “Have they come yet?” he asked. The other looked at him gravely with a certain respect and pity, and with the eye also of a medical man. “Not yet, Colonel,” he answered. “You had better sit down and rest, you are all in.” The Colonel passed a weary hand over his forehead. “No,” he said. “No, Campbell; I shall go back and look for the party. They may have lost their way, and--they were three of my best officers, three of my boys.... I--I----” “Here, sir! Take this.” It was more of a command than a request. The Colonel drained what was given him, and went out without a word. Back he trudged, along the shell-pitted road, even now swept by occasional salvos of shrapnel. He took no notice of anything, but continued feverishly on his way, his eyes ever searching the distance. At last he gave vent to an exclamation. Down the road was coming a stretcher party. They had but one stretcher, and on it lay three blanketed bundles. The Colonel met them, and with bowed head accompanied them back to the dressing-station. “You found them--all?” It was his only question. “Yes, sir, all that was left.” The stretcher was taken to a little empty dug-out, and with his own hands the C.O. laid the Union Jack over it. “When will the--the graves be ready?” he asked the doctor.