The surgeon approached the table. The man had indeed lost consciousness; and I saw it was the very one who swore he would not take the anæsthetic. The poor man had not dared even to make a protest. Caught, as it were, in the cogs of the wheel, he was at once overpowered, and he delivered himself up to the hungry machine, like pig-iron devoured by the rolling-mills. And then, too, he must have known it was for his good, because this is all the good that is left to us in these days. “Sergeant,” some one remarked, “you are not allowed to remain in the operating theatre without a cap.” On going out, I looked once again at the surgeon. He hung over his work with an assiduity in which, despite his overalls, his mask and his gloves, a feeling of tenderness was plainly marked. I thought with conviction: “No! No! He, at least, has no illusions!” And I found myself once more in the waiting-room, that smelt of blood, like a wild beast’s lair. A dim light came from a veiled lamp. Some wounded were moaning; others chatted in low voices. “Who said tank?” said one of them. “Why, I was wounded in a tank.” There was silence, brief and respectful. The man, who was buried in bandages, added: “Our petrol-tank burst: my legs are broken and I am burnt in the face. Oh! I know all about tanks!” He said that with a queer emphasis in which I recognised the age-long torment of humanity--pride. * * * * * I went out into the night to enjoy a smoke. The world seemed to be dazed, bewildered, tragic; and I think that in reality.... Believe me, sir, when I speak of civilisation and regret it, I quite know what I am saying; and it is not wireless telegraphy that will alter my opinion. It is all the more tragic because we are helpless; we cannot reverse the course which the world is taking. And yet! Civilisation--the true civilisation--exists. I think often of it. In my mind it is the harmony of a choir chanting a hymn; it is a marble statue on an arid, burnt-up hillside; it is the Man who said, “Love one another,” or “Return good for evil.” But for two thousand years these phrases have been merely repeated, and the chief priests have too much vested interest in temporal things to conceive anything of the kind. We are mistaken about happiness and about good. The noblest natures have also been mistaken, for silence and solitude are too often denied them. I have seen the monstrous steriliser on its throne. I tell you, of a truth, civilisation is not to be found there any more than in the shining forceps of the surgeon. Civilisation is not in this terrible trumpery; and if it is not in the heart of man, then it exists nowhere. THE END Printed by SPOTTISWOODE, BALLANTYNE & CO. LTD. Colchester, London & Eton, England FOOTNOTES: [2] G.B.C., abbreviation for _groupe de brancardiers du corps_ (the corps ambulance division).