Wardlaw moved cautiously across the room and stood looking down upon the sleeping child. He looked long, and who shall say with what poignant and unutterable agony of spirit. Then he slipped the paper bag containing what he had brought with him under the pillow, and gently moved the book, lest it should fall upon the floor and wake her. The volume contained two stories, bound up together--"Sintram and his Companions," and "Aslauga's Knight," stories whose leaves come out of the old Saga-land, bringing with them the romance and adventure that charm the children, while also they reveal to older folk the mystic conflict of the human soul. Sintram's Companions, as Wardlaw knew, were Sin and Death, Companions of us all. With Death by his side, Sintram had to ride amid the terrors of the narrow mountain gorge--just as the Pilgrim of the immortal Progress had journeyed through the Valley of the Shadow. His eyes rested on the open page of the story-book:-- "When Death is coming near, When thy heart shrinks in fear And thy limbs fail, Then raise thy hands and pray To Him who smoothes the way Through the dark vale." He bowed his head and closed the book quietly, placing it near the child's pillow. Downstairs the clock chimed a quarter after ten--cheery little chimes, ticking off the flight of time as if endless days and years still remained for all who heard them. And yet for him who listened only a few hours of life remained. Death called him--not in the heat and excitement of battle, but in this still hour of cool blood and calm reflection. It made it vastly harder to obey. Never again would he hear those familiar tinkling chimes. This was his last farewell to all that he held dear. Death coldly beckoned him, as Sintram was beckoned at the entrance of the gorge. His hour had come to pass into the Shadow. The stern implacable demand of duty was ringing in his soul, and he dared gaze no longer on his sleeping child. If she should wake and look into his eyes, courage, honour, duty, all that makes man obedient unto death, might fail him even now. He dared not press his lips upon her cheek; he dared not even touch her hand. She stirred and muttered something in her sleep. He quickly raised and kissed a few strands of her lovely hair; it was the last touch, the final leave-taking! The father turned away. The child slept on. * * * * * A hundred yards from the bungalow--appointed to stay there, so that Flossie should not hear and wonder--a motor-car awaited him. The chauffeur belonged to his own corps--the Engineers. The man saluted him and looked anxiously at the drawn--white face, on which the lamp-light fell. Not a word was spoken. Wardlaw took his seat, and immediately the car, like a sentient thing let loose, sped swiftly on the road to Dover.