"Of course," replied I uncivilly. Did he think _he_ would visit Doe and _I_ wouldn't--I who had known him ten years? The man was presuming on his six-months' acquaintance with my friend. "Well, come down to the dump, and we'll find you a horse." "How is he?" asked I, not choosing to be told what to do. "Bad. Come along. There's no time to lose." "All right--I'm coming, aren't I? I don't need to be ordered to go." In silence we went down Gurkha Mule Trench into Gully Ravine, where the horse lines were. "Saddle up Charlie," said Monty to his groom, "and get the Major's chestnut for Captain Ray." The groom brought the horses, and, as he tightened up the girth on Monty's dark bay Arab, asked me: "Are you going to see Mr. Doe, sir?" I turned away without answering. I hadn't spoken to him, and there was no occasion for him to speak to me. "Yes, we are," said Monty promptly. "Sad about such a nice young gentleman. He's packing up, they say." "The damned alarmist!" thought I. "He relishes the grim news." But I knew in my heart that I was only grudging him his right to be sorry for Doe. Who was _he_ to grieve? Three months before he had not heard of us. On all the Peninsula there was only one just claim to the right of grieving: and that was mine. Monty mounted. Seizing the reins carelessly, I put my foot in the chestnut's stirrup. As I rose, the bit pulled on the mare's mouth and she wheeled and reared, shaking me awkwardly to the ground. "Damn the bloody horse," I said aloud. Monty stroked his bay's silk neck, as though he had heard nothing. "You've got his rein too tight, sir," the groom told me. "All right! I know how to mount a horse." I swung into the saddle, and, ignoring Monty, set the mare, which was very fresh, at a canter towards Artillery Road. Artillery Road was a winding gun-track that climbed out of Gully Ravine up to the tableland beneath Achi Baba. Much too fast I ran the chestnut up the steep incline, and emerged from the ravine on to the high level ground. Straightway I looked across two miles of scrub to the seaward point of the plateau, where stood a large camp of square tents. It was No. 17 Stationary Hospital, the "White City." ... I wondered which of those tents he was in. The chestnut, anxious for a gallop through the scrub, and excited by the noise of Monty cantering behind, pulled hard. My heart was in sympathy with her, and I let her open into a stretch-gallop. For I was absurdly thinking that, if once I allowed Monty to draw abreast of me, I should yield to him a share of my position as chief mourner. I wanted to be lonely in my grief. At a point in front of me on the beaten road shells were dropping with regularity. Savagely grieving, I let the mare race the shells to the danger zone. What cared I if shell and mare and rider converged together upon their destruction?