He fretted irritably because no one seemed to take any notice of him, and suddenly his head began throbbing worse than ever. But the hazy indistinctness was gone; the man was acutely conscious of everything around him. Memory had come back, and he knew where he was and why he was there. He remembered the fierce artillery bombardment; he recalled getting over the parapet, out on to the brown shell-pocked earth, sodden and heavy with the drenching rain; he recalled the steady shamble over the ground with boots so coated with wet mud that they seemed to drag him back. Then clear in his mind came the picture of Chilcote cheering, shouting, lifting them on to the ruins of what once had been a village; he saw Chilcote falter, stop, and, with a curious spinning movement, crash forward on to his face; he saw the Germans--he saw fierce-faced men like animals at bay, snarling, fighting; he heard once again that trembling cry of "_Kamerade_"; and then--a blank. The amazing thing was that it was all jumbled up with Molly. He seemed to have been with her lately--and yet she couldn't have been out there with him. He puzzled a bit, and then gave it up: it hurt his head so terribly to think. He just lay still, gazing fixedly at the jagged, torn pane of glass. . . . "They are all out, Doctor, except this one." A woman was speaking close beside him, and his eyes slowly travelled round in the direction of the voice. It was another woman--a woman he hadn't seen before--swaying slightly as if she would drop. "Good heavens! it's Billy Saunders!" A man in khaki was bending over him--a man whom he recognised as a civilian doctor he'd known at home--a man, moreover, who knew Molly. "Do you know me, old chap?" "Of course," answered the man. "What's all the trouble?" The doctor bit his lip, and the man noticed his hand clench hard. Then there started a low-voiced conversation, a conversation to which he listened attentively--his hearing seemed abnormally acute. "Has he spoken since he's been in, sister?" "No--only those dreadful moans. The whole of his face--absolutely hopeless--spinal cord." The man lying motionless caught the disjointed words. What did they mean? They were mad--insane. Dying? He--Billy Saunders! What about Molly--his Molly? What about. . . . Gentle fingers once again touched his head, and, looking up, he saw the doctor's eyes fixed on his. "They're shelling the hospital, dear old man; we've got to get---- Great Scott, look out!" Like the moan of a giant insect, the shrill whine came through the air, rising to an overwhelming scream. There was a deafening crash--a great hole was torn in the wall just by the window with the jagged pane, and the room filled with stifling black fumes. A sudden agonising stab, and the man, looking up, saw Molly in front of him. She was standing in the acrid smoke--beckoning. "I'm coming, dear, I'm coming!" he cried; "it's good of you to have waited, girl of mine--so good."