It was the same at the bonfire in the evening at the Rushbrookes'. The island was a fairy picture of mingling lights and shadows. As the flaming west grew grey, the pale silver of the moon, riding high and serene, fell upon the crowding, gaily decked launches that thronged the docks and moored to the shore; upon the dark balsams and silver birches hung with parti-coloured gaudy Chinese lanterns; upon the groups of girls, fair and sweet in their white summer camping frocks, and young men in flannels, their bare necks and arms showing brown and strong; upon little clusters of their fathers and mothers gravely talking together. From the veranda above, mingling with the laughing, chattering voices, the alluring strains of the orchestra invited to waltz, or fox trot. As the flame died from the western sky and the shadows crept down from the trees, the bonfire was set alight. As the flame leaped high the soft strains of the orchestra died away. Then suddenly, clear, full and strong, a chord sounded forth, another, and then another. A hush fell upon the chattering, laughing crowd. Then as they caught the strain men lolling upon the ground sprang to their feet; lads stood at attention. “Send him victorious,” some one sang timidly, giving words to the music. In one instant a hundred throats were wide open singing the words: “Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save our King.” Again the chords sounded and at once the verse from the first was sung again. “God save our gracious King, Long live our noble King, God save our King, Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save our King.” As the last note died Ramsay Dunn leaped upon a huge boulder, threw up his hand and began, “In days of yore, from Britain's shore.” A yell greeted him, sudden, fierce, triumphant, drowned his voice, then ceased! And again from a hundred throats of men and women, boys and girls, the words rang out, “There may it wave, our boast and pride, And joined in love together, The thistle, shamrock, rose entwine, The Maple Leaf forever.” Again and again and once again they followed Ramsay in the quick, shrill Canadian cheer that was to be heard in after days in places widely different and far remote from that gay, moonlit, lantern-decked, boat-thronged, water-lapped island in that far northern Canadian lake. Following the cheers there came stillness. Men looked sheepishly at each other as if caught in some silly prank. Then once more the Spectre drew near. But this time they declined not to look, but with steady, grave, appraising eyes they faced The Thing, resolute to know the worst, and in quiet undertones they talked together of War.