At the station all that was most representative in Beachbourne had gathered to see the reservists off. The Mayor was there in his chain of office; the Church Militant in the person of the Archdeacon; Mr. Glynde, the senior member for Beachbourne, middle-aged, swarthy, his hair already white, making a marked contrast to his junior colleague, the fair-haired young giant, talking to the Archdeacon. The old gentleman looked ghastly; his face colourless save for the shadows of death which emphasised his pallor. Then he saw Bobby Chislehurst busy among the departing soldiers, and beckoned him austerely. "I thought you were a pacifist, Chislehurst!" he said, his smile more kindly and less histrionic than usual. "So I am, sir," answered Bobby, brightly. "But there are several of our men from the Moot going off. It's not their fault they've got to go, poor beggars!" "Their _fault_!" cried the Archdeacon. "It's their privilege." He added less harshly, "We must all stand by the country now, Chislehurst." "Yes, sir," said Bobby. "I shan't give the show away," and he bustled off. Then the Colonel stalked up. "Well, Archdeacon, what d'you make of it all?" he asked, curious as a child to gather impressions. The Archdeacon drew himself up. "Just retribution," he answered in voice that seemed to march. "If a nation will go a-whoring after false gods in the wilderness what can you expect? Gahd does not forget." The Colonel listened blankly, his long neck elongated like a questing schoolboy. "What you mean?" he asked. "Welsh Disestablishment Bill," the other answered curtly. Mr. Trupp now entered the station, and the Colonel, who though quiet outwardly, was in a condition of intense spiritual exaltation that made him restless as dough in which the yeast is working, joined his pal. He had cause for his emotion. The Cabinet had stood. The country had closed its ranks in a way that was little short of a miracle. All men of all parties had rallied to the flag. In Dublin the Irish mob which had provoked the King's Own Scottish Borderers to bloody retaliation, had turned out and cheered the battalion as it marched down to the transports for embarkation. "Well, we're roused at last," said the Colonel, as he looked round on that humming scene. "Yes," answered Mr. Trupp. "It's taken a bash in the face to do it though." "Should be interesting," commented the Colonel, hiding his emotion behind an air of detachment. "An undisciplined horde of men who believe themselves to be free against a disciplined mass of slaves." Just then Mr. Pigott approached. The old Nonconformist had about him the air of a boy coming up to the desk to take his punishment. He was at once austere and chastened. "Well, Colonel," he said. "You were right." The Colonel took the other's hand warmly.