He winked at Miss Willmot as he spoke. This was the time for her to back up his charitable appeal. “Ah,” said the Major, “I’m afraid I can’t do much for him. It’s a serious charge, a case of a Field General Court Martial. I’m afraid there’s no doubt about the facts. I’m sorry for him. He’s quite young; but it’s a disgraceful thing for any man to do.” The Major’s face hardened. For many offences and most offenders he had some sympathy; but a man who sinned against the code of military honour had little pity to expect from the Major. Miss Willmot looked up. “Is it very bad?” she asked. “One of those cases of self-wounding,” said the Major. “Shot himself in the leg with his own rifle.” There are cases of this kind, a few of them. Some wretch, driven half frantic by terror, worn out with hardships, hopeless of any end of his sufferings, seeks this way out. He gains a week of rest and security in a hospital ward. Then he faces the stern judgment of a court martial, and pays the penalty. “Poor fellow!” said Miss Willmot. “Poor boy! What he must have gone through before he did that!” “He went through no more than any other man went through,” said the Major; “but they stuck it and he shirked. There are men enough who deserve our pity, Miss Willmot. We can’t afford to waste sympathy on cowards.” Miss Willmot was of another mind. For her there was a law higher even than the Major’s lofty code of chivalry and honour. She had pity to spare for cowards. The Major himself was not wholly consistent. As he rose to leave the kitchen he spoke of the prisoner again. “He doesn’t look like a man who’d do it. He looks like a gentleman. That makes it worse, of course, much worse. All the same, he doesn’t look it.” “Well?” said Digby, when the Major left. “I can’t do anything,” said Miss Willmot “In a case of this kind there’s nothing to be done.” But Miss Willmot made up a little parcel before she left the canteen. There were cigarettes in it, and chocolate, and a couple of mince pies, and a large slice of cake, and some biscuits. Afterwards she acted lawlessly, offended against discipline, treated rules and regulations with contempt. Sergeant O’Rorke was sitting in the guard-room playing patience when Miss Willmot entered. He stood up at once and saluted. “Terrible weather, miss. I’ll never say again that it rains in the County Galway. Sure, it doesn’t know how. A man would have to come to France to find out what rain is.” “Sergeant,” said Miss Willmot, “I want to speak to your prisoner.”