And day wore on to night. For it took eleven trains to move the seven-hundred and thirty-one officers and men, the five hundred and thirty-nine horses, the sixteen guns and hundred odd waggons of the old-time Artillery Brigade with its Ammunition Column. § 8 Eleven-thirty P. M.! Already, D and C Batteries, and the three clumsy sections of Billy Williams’ Ammunition Column were away into the jingling darkness. Peter had come home to dinner; departed again. Upstairs at the villa, Patricia could hear Alice sobbing gently, and Stark’s deep voice, the parade-rasp clean gone out of it, “Don’t cry, sweetheart. For God’s sake, don’t cry.” . . . “I mustn’t cry for Peter. Not until he’s gone,” thought Patricia. She tip-toed upstairs; slipped into a cloak; stole out of the house. The night had cleared; stars twinkled through the fir-trees as she made her way down the sandy road. From the General’s house and the big Mess Hut, lights streaked thinly; she could hear men’s voices. A soldier was singing, far off, up the hillside towards Blackdown. She came to the sentry-box at the gate; passed unchallenged. In the gun-park electric torches glowed, went out again. She was aware of hooves stamping, chains jingling, men moving everywhere. A hurricane-lamp, hanging at a stable-doorway, showed up the shadows of soldiers, standing to shadowy horses. She heard Torrington’s voice, “B Battery. Prepare to mount. Mount!” Boots clapped on gravel; shadows swung to saddles; a mare neighed. “_Column of Route from the right. Walk—March! Right Incline. Steady that leading team._” They came towards her, lumbering through the gloom; filed by. “That you, Mrs. P.J.?” called the last horseman. “Yes, Captain Torrington.” “Good luck.” “And good luck to you all.” They were by now. She heard a voice, “Mind that water-cart”; heard the curse of a driver as wheel shaved gate-post. Dust rolled back; choked her. . . . “Dear God,” she thought, “can I stick it?” Another voice hailed her. “That you, Mrs. P.J.? I suspected as much. Come to bid the hero Adjutant farewell?” It was Purves—and she hated him. “He’s in the Orderly Room. By that light.” “Thank you, Mr. Purves.” She walked very quietly to the gleaming doorway; climbed the two steps; looked in. “Hello, old thing,” said Peter. He had just opened a little packet of revolver cartridges; was slipping them into the pouch of the laden Sam Browne spread out on the table under the acetylene lamp. “Bet you a fiver I never fire any of these in anger.” He picked up one of the brass cylinders; stretched it out to her. “Did you see B’s first section go off? Looked well, didn’t they?” “Yes, awfully well.” She found voice somehow. “Come and have a look at Little Willie. I’ve got nothing to do for another hour. . . .”