Of what use to write of that terrible fight and of the gas and the horror and the mud? John Ardayre seemed to bear a charmed life as he led his men "over the top." For an hour wild with exaltation and gladness, he rallied them and cheered them on. The scene of blood and carnage has been too often repeated on other fateful days, and as often well described, when acts of glorious heroism occurred again and again. John had rushed forward to succour a wounded trooper when a shell crashed near them, and he fell to the ground. And then he know what the great thing was the New Year had promised him. For death was going to straighten out matters--John was going beyond. Well, he had never been rebellious, and he knew now that light had come. But the sky above seemed to be darkening curiously, and the terrible noise to be growing dim, when he was conscious that a man was crawling towards him, dragging a leg, and then his eyes opened wildly for an instant, and he saw that it was Denzil all covered with blood. "Are we both going West, Denzil?" he demanded faintly. "At least I am--" then he gasped a little, while a stream of scarlet flowed from his shattered side. "I've asked you in a letter to marry Amaryllis immediately--if you get home. I hope your number is not up, too, because she will be all alone. Take care of her, Denzil, and take care of the child...." His voice grew lower and lower, and the last words came in spasms: "There is an Ardayre son, you know--so it's all right. The family is saved from Ferdinand and I am very glad to die." Denzil tried to get out his flask, but before he could reach John's lips with it he saw that it would be of no avail--for Death had claimed the head of the Family. And above his mangled body John's face wore a look of calm serenity, and his firm lips smiled. Then things became all vague for Denzil and he remembered nothing more. CHAPTER XIX It was more than two months before Denzil was well enough to be brought from Boulogne, and then he had a relapse and for the whole of July was dangerously ill. At one moment there seemed to be no hope of saving his leg, and his mother ate her heart out with anxiety. And Amaryllis, back at Ardayre with the little Benedict, wept many tears. John's death had deeply grieved her. She realised his steadfast kindness and affection for her. He had written her a letter just before the battle had begun--a short epistle telling her calmly that the chances would be perhaps even for any man to come out of it alive--and assuring her of his greatest devotion.