All the scenes, incidents, persons of the preceding days were flowing in one continuous medley through the Squire's mind--the great spectacle of the back of the Army, with all its endless movement, its crowded roads and marching men, the hovering aeroplanes, the _camouflaged_ guns, the long trains of artillery waggons and motor-lorries, strange faces of Kaffir boys and Chinese, grey lines of German prisoners. And then, the hospital. Nothing very much doing, so he was told. Yet hour after hour the wounded came in, men shattered by bomb and shell and rifle-bullet, in the daily raids that went on throughout the line. And scarcely a moan, scarcely a word of complaint!--men giving up their turn with the surgeon to a comrade--'Never mind me, sir--he's worse nor me!'--or the elder cheering the younger--'Stick it, young'un--this'll get you to Blighty right enough!'--or, in the midst of mortal pain, signing a field postcard for the people at home, or giving a message to a _padre_ for mother or wife. Like some monstrous hand, the grip of the war had finally closed upon the Squire's volatile, recalcitrant soul. It was now crushing the moral and intellectual energy in himself, as it had crushed the physical life of his son. For it was as though he were crouching on some bare space, naked and alone, like a wounded man left behind in a shell-hole by his comrades' advance. He was aware, indeed, of a mysterious current of spiritual force--patriotism, or religion, or both in one--which seemed to be the support of other men. He had seen incredible, superhuman proofs of it in those few hospital days. But it was of no use to him. There was only one dim glimmer in his mind--towards which at intervals he seemed to be reaching out. A woman's face--a woman's voice--in which there seemed to be some offer of help or comfort. He had seen her--she was somewhere in the house. But there seemed to be insuperable barriers--closed doors, impassable spaces--between himself and her. It was a nightmare, partly the result of fatigue and want of sleep. When he had first seen his son, Desmond was unconscious, and the end was hourly expected. He remembered telegraphing to a famous surgeon at home to come over; he recalled the faces of the consultants round Desmond's bed, and the bald man with the keen eyes, who had brought him the final verdict: 'Awfully sorry!--but we can do nothing! He may live a little while--and he has been begging and praying us to send him home. Better take him--the authorities will give leave. I'll see to that--it can't do much harm. The morphia will keep down the pain--and the poor lad will die happy.' And then there was much talk of plaster bandages, and some new mechanical appliance to prevent jolting--of the surgeon going home on leave who would take charge of the journey--of the nurses to be sent--and other matters of which he only retained a blurred remembrance.