'Desmond!' he said in a clear voice, 'the offensive's begun. The Chief in my room at the War Office has just been telephoning me. It began at eight this morning--on a front of fifty miles. Can you hear me?' The boy opened his eyes--straining them on Arthur. 'It's begun!' he said eagerly--'begun! What have they done?' 'The bombardment opened at dawn--about five--the German infantry attacked about eight. It's been going on the whole morning--and down the whole front from Arras to the Scarpe.' 'And we've held?--we've _held_?' 'So far magnificently. Our outpost troops have been withdrawn to the battle-zone--that's all. The line has held everywhere. The Germans have lost heavily.' 'Outpost troops!' whispered the boy--'why, that's nothing! We always expected--to lose the first line. Good old Army!' A pause, and then--so faintly breathed as to be scarcely audible, and yet in ecstasy--'England!--England!' His joy was wonderful--heart-breaking--while all those around him wept. He lay murmuring to himself a little while, his hand in Pamela's. Then for a last time he looked at his father, but was now too weak to speak. His eyes, intently fixed on the Squire, kept their marvellous brightness--no one knew how long. Then gently, as though an unseen hand put out a light, the brilliance died away--the lids fell--and with a few breaths Desmond's young life was past. CHAPTER XVII It was three weeks after Desmond's death. Pamela was sitting in the 'den' writing a letter to Arthur Chicksands at Versailles. The first onslaught on Amiens was over. The struggle between Bethune and Ypres was in full swing. 'DEAREST--This house is so strange--the world is so strange! Oh, if I hadn't my work to do!--how could one bear it? It seems wrong and hateful even, to let one's mind dwell on the wonderful, wonderful thing, that you love me! The British Army retreating--_retreating_--after these glorious years--that is what burns into me hour after hour! Thank God Desmond didn't know! And if I feel like this, who am just an ignorant, inexperienced girl, what must it be for you who are working there, at the very centre, the news streaming in on you all the time?--you who know how much there is to fear--but also how much there is to be certain of--to be confident of--that we can't know. Our splendid, _splendid_ men! Every day I watch for the names I know in the death list--and some of them seem to be always there. The boy--the other sub-lieutenant--who was with Desmond when he was wounded, was in the list yesterday. Forest's boy is badly wounded. The old gardener has lost another son. Perley's boy is "missing," and so is the poor Pennington boy. They are heroic--the Penningtons--but whenever I see them I want to cry.... Oh, I can't write this any more. I have been writing letters of sympathy all day.