It was a night of starshine and soft breezes. As they climbed the rising ground, the pure air from the sea grew stronger. Bracing, health-giving, breathing life, it fanned the face of the silent man who was rushing towards his self-appointed doom. Stiff and rigid, he sat, staring into the night, but conscious of nothing around him or before him. All his thoughts were of what was left behind--the dainty bedroom with the shaded light, the rosy sleeping child, the delicate dimpled face that he should see no more, his one ewe lamb of all the world. "If Thou shouldst call me to resign...." The burden of the hymn was ringing in his brain, insistent, agonizing. On and on sped the car. Away to the South the flashlights were sweeping the Channel, and, ahead, the first outlying lights of Dover soon came into view. Every moment the dull, dogged voices of the guns grew louder. Still Wardlaw remained rigid and voiceless, as one who is paralyzed by some dreadful nightmare, while ding-dong in his mind the words of the hymn persisted and repeated: "If Thou shouldst call me to resign.... If Thou shouldst call me to resign." ... They were close to Dover now. The car sped down from the heights. Ahead of them on the hard white road a lanthorn was swinging to and fro, and the chauffeur slackened speed to answer the challenge of the guard. He gave the password, and again the car tore forward. Houses on either side now were numerous. Presently the car wound down into the town. Silent, half-ruined, the unlighted streets gave an inexpressible impression of melancholy and disaster. Here and there the vibration caused by the passing car brought down loosened stone and brickwork with a sudden clatter. At one spot some fragments of mortar flew out and struck Wardlaw in the face. They pricked him into consciousness. He shook himself and gave a brief order to the chauffeur. The car turned down a side street, and presently drew up before a large house standing in the shelter of the Castle Hill. There were lights in all the windows; shadows passed and repassed across the drawn blinds. A strained air of animation and activity pervaded the place. A group of orderlies stood about the entrance, and through the open doorway there were glimpses of officers hurrying from room to room with clank of spur and rattle of accoutrement. This house, the head-quarters of the military staff, contained for the time being the brain of the British Army--foiled, so far, but still feverishly bent on devising means for the expulsion of the obstinate invader. As the car stopped, a tall officer hurried out and grasped Wardlaw by the hand. It was a grasp that told more than words could utter--a grasp that recognized the arrival of a supreme moment, at once the grip of friendship and the clasp of greeting and farewell. "The General's expecting you. I'll take you to him at once!" Wardlaw nodded, and, still as one that dreamed, followed the aide-de-camp into the house.