The chalice fell through Sheila's fingers and struck the altar steps with a sharp, metallic ring. The next instant she was beside the chief, looking down with wide, unbelieving eyes at the stretcher which held nothing familiar but the gray uniform--and there were many men wearing the same. It could not be. This was not the way Peter was coming back to her. In all the days of horror, of caring for the hundreds of wounded, it had never entered her mind that war might claim the man she loved. Her love, and the fulfilment thereof, had stood out as the one absolute reality of life, the thing that could not fail. This simply could not be; Peter was still far away, but coming, supreme in his strength, invulnerable in his love and promise to her. "You--don't know him?" The chief asked it hopefully. The girl shook her head. "He can't be--The beard--Wait." Her hand slipped through the opening in his uniform to an inside pocket. She drew out a flat bundle of papers, and the first glance told her all she needed to know. There was Peter's unmistakable scribbling on the uppermost, and from under it showed the corner of one of her letters to him. The chief's hand steadied her. "No time to lose, girl, but we'll pull him through. We've got to fight for it, but we'll do it. Easy there, boys. Take him over to the table, there, under the light." But Sheila O'Leary put out a detaining hand. Her eyes were no longer on Peter; she was looking at the figure on the other stretcher. "What did you say about that French boy?" "He'll have to go, poor chap! There isn't time for both. Listen, Leerie," as a flash of pain swept the girl's face, "it's a toss-up between them who's worse, and it's down now to a matter of minutes. It means the best team-work we've done yet to save just your man." Still the girl made no move. Her eyes were turned away. In her ears was ringing the chorus of the mothers, those waiting for Louis or Jacques or Lucien to come home. Dear God, what was she to do? The chief pulled her sleeve. "Wake up, girl. There's a chance for your man, I tell you, only in Heaven's name don't waste it! Come." She tried to take her eyes away from the boy, tried to shut her ears to the cry that was ringing in them. She wanted to look at Peter and say the word that would start the bearers carrying him to that little zone of light about the altar where they had saved so many during those days. But her eyes clung, in spite of her, to the white boy-face and the faded blue uniform below it. Peter had no mother, no one but herself to face the grief and mourn the loss of him, and the hearts of French mothers had been drained--bled almost to the last drop? Wouldn't Peter say to save that drop? Had she the right to shed it and spare her own heart's bleeding? The questions filtered through her mind with the inevitableness of sands in an hour-glass. With a cry of agony she wrenched her eyes away at last and faced the chief.