To determine was to act. Smearing the perspiration of undue thought from his forehead, he buttoned his tunic, looked hastily about the interstices of the sand-bags of the dugout for small valued possessions, and slipped out beneath the shelter of the trees. The area lying between the wood and the village where the Field Ambulance had located its post was alive with troops. The pavé of the road, upheaved by continuous traffic and an occasional shell, was not a healthy place for evening exercise, but there was no order against it. The danger of being shot during the journey had long become a negligible quantity. A church tower, shell-riddled and tottering, was the landmark. Behind it Hagan knew he should find the red-cross flag hanging limply from its pole. Women, with a horse and cart gathering the wheat in a field on his left, glanced up with pleasant smile of greeting as he passed. The orderlies filling a regimental water-cart at the village pump took no notice of him whatever. Presently, reaching the shadows of the church, he began to walk slower, then halted. He felt as if he needed a moment in which to pull himself together. So far in his life his histrionic sense had never been tested. It is notorious that even experienced actors occasionally suffer from stage fright. A couple of R.A.M.C. orderlies, leaning against the door-post beneath the red-cross flag, presently noticed a soldier staggering towards them and blindly clutching at the empty air. In normal times their unanimous diagnosis woud have been ‘beer.’ They knew, however, that in the firing line such could not be. Hagan, squinting between half-closed eyelashes, staggered another ten yards, embraced one of the orderlies round the neck, slid limply to the ground, and, breathing heavily, lay quite still. In a moment a stretcher was at hand; within a minute the patient was inside the building. There were only half a dozen other men to share it with him, as the evening evacuation of sick and wounded to the Clearing Hospital had already taken place. ‘What’s wrong, matey?’ questioned one of the orderlies, holding a pannikin of soup to the patient’s lips. ‘Here, drink this. Wake up! Can you hear me?’ With a shudder Hagan opened his eyes, and, half-rising to his feet, glared about him. Rolls of wool and bandages, trays of surgical instruments, splints, buckets, and basins surrounded him upon all sides. ‘Ah--the hospital!’ he muttered. ‘I remimber now. It is afther faintin’ I be.’ ‘H’m--lie down!’ advised the orderly, pushing him back on the stretcher. ‘I will call the medical officer. Perhaps he’ll give you a tot of brandy.’ ‘Begob, and I’m all roight, me bhoy,’ asserted Hagan, with well-assumed eagerness to depart. ‘Give me only foive--or maybe tin--minutes’ rest and a sip av whater.’