“God”—Sandiland’s voice was low, but tense as a scream—“God, I never knew I was a coward. . . . I’m not a coward. . . . It’s sending the others into it I can’t stick. . . . I’d go myself. . . . You know I’d go myself, P.J. . . . But I can’t stand sending these chaps to their death, day after day, one after the other. . . . I killed Lindsay. . . . It wasn’t his turn for F.O.O. . . . I killed Haviland. . . .” The monologue went on. . . . “Seven of them—the best signallers a battery ever had—and I detailed them for duty. . . . One by one I detailed them, didn’t I? . . . I chose this battery position, didn’t I?” He began to laugh. “And it’s your turn tomorrow, P.J. . . . Your turn! . . . Bloody funny if I killed our old Adjutant, too. . . . God, I wish I could go instead of you. . . . I’ve got to be here, P.J. Do you understand that? . . . Here, waiting by these blasted cannons for some poor devil to come crawling back and tell me you’ve been killed. . . .” But Peter, listening speechless, felt himself the greater coward of the two: for he would have given everything he possessed—everything except that last scrap of gold which is a man’s self-respect—not to go down on the morrow to those trenches whence he had brought back Lindsay’s body. There came the scrabble of feet above their heads; some one called down out of the darkness: “Say, is this Beer Battery, Fourth Southdown Brigade? Is this Captain Sandiland’s battery?” “It is,”—Sandiland’s voice had lost all trace of hysteria. “Who are you?” “My name’s Henry. Colonel Revelsworth told me to report to you for duty.” “Stout fellow. Come down if you can find your way. Have you got a torch?” “Yes. Is it safe to use it?” “Quite. Mind the wire.” Followed the sound of falling earth, and a huge man, long gloves and revolver at belt, long torch in brown hand. The newcomer flicked out his torch; saluted with a curious courteous bend of his head; stood blinking at the light of the candle. He was well over six-foot, blue-eyed and broad-shouldered, firm of chin and clean-shaven. He wore the usual cap, collar, belt and tunic of a British second lieutenant; but his breeches bagged curiously at the knee, had the appearance of being tucked loosely into his soft field-boots, at heels of which showed a pair of swan-neck spurs, loosely strapped and formidable of rowel. Boots and spurs were both caked with white chalk. He carried no cane. “Sit down, won’t you?” said Sandiland. “There’s a box kicking about somewhere. This is Jameson.” “Glad to know you.” Henry made a movement as if to shake hands; thought better of it; found the box Sandiland indicated; and sat down with that peculiar straddle which denotes a horseman the world over.