Here is an officer lying on his back, his knees doubled up, a revolver gripped in one hand, a weighted stick in the other. His face is black, so death was instantaneous. Out of the officer's pocket a letter protrudes--a letter to his wife. Perhaps he anticipated death before he started, for it was written the night before the advance--who knows? And it is when, in the soft half-light of the moon, one walks among these silent remnants, and no sound breaks the stillness save the noise of the shovels where men are digging their graves; when the guns are silent and only an occasional burst of rifle fire comes from away in front, where the great green flares go silently up into the night, that for a moment the human side comes home to one. One realises that though monster guns and minenwerfer and strange scientific devices be the paper money of this war, now as ever the standard coinage--the bed-rock gold of barter--is still man's life. The guns count much--but the man counts more. Take out his letter carefully--it will be posted later. Scratch him a grave, there's work to be done--much work, so hurry. His name has been sent in to headquarters--there's no time to waste. Easy, lads, easy--that's right--cover him up. A party of you over there and get on with that horse--_there's no time to waste_.... But somewhere in England a telegraph boy comes whistling up the drive, and the woman catches her breath. With fingers that tremble she takes the buff envelope--with fearful eyes she opens the flimsy paper. Superbly she draws herself up--"There is no answer...." Lady, you are right. There is no answer, no answer this side of the Great Divide. Just now--with your aching eyes fixed on _his_ chair you face your God, and ask Why? He knows, dear woman, He knows, and in time it will all be clear--the why and the wherefore. Surely it must be so. But just now it's Hell, isn't it? You know so little: you couldn't help him at the end; he had to go into the Deep Waters alone. With the shrapnel screaming overhead he lies at peace, while above him it still goes on--the work of life and death: the work that brooks no delay. He is part of the Price.... CHAPTER X THE MADNESS