The story of the great retreat cannot be told in these pages. When once the retrograde movement began, every armed man in Afghanistan and Northern Persia hasted like a sleuth-hound in pursuit. Only a fraction of the half-million invaders returned to Tashkend and beyond. A year or two afterwards, when the invasion was passing into the oblivion which soon swallows up even the greatest events of the hurrying modern world, two of the actors in this little drama had their memories recalled to it by a trifling street scene. Colonel Sir Herbert Endicott and Lieutenant Robert Appleton were walking through the bazaar at Lahore when they met an old fakir striding along. They were struck by his vacant gaze, and the incessant muttering of his lips. "You heard what he said, Bob?" said the Colonel, as the tall, lean, half-naked figure swung by. "Yes," replied Bob, who was becoming an expert in the Border dialects. "’I am a sharpener of swords,’ wasn’t it?" And his thoughts flew back to that first journey through the hills. "The poor wretch is clearly mad," said the Colonel. "I fear the sword he sharpened has wounded his own hand. Let’s hope it will always be so with rebels and malcontents. There’s this good come out of it, at any rate: we have learnt to sharpen our own swords, and not to grudge the expense.... When do you expect your new aeroplane?" "Pretty soon. It’s a ripper, but I shan’t like it so well as the old one. Old friends are best." "Does that hold with aeroplanes as with men, I wonder? Anyhow, I wish you luck with it. Shall we turn?" THE END Richard Clay & Sons, Limited London and Bungay.