Shafto and the _pongye_ separated at Marseilles; the latter went round by the Bay, whilst Mrs. Gregory and her party travelled overland, and they did not meet again for nearly two years. CHAPTER XXXVIII SERGEANT-MAJOR RYAN Many months later, on a clear February night, Shafto and Tremenheere stood together outside Headquarters, “somewhere in France,” anxiously observing the signs in the sky. Shafto, a machine-gun officer attached to the Blanks, had been granted twenty-four hours’ leave, and made a muddy and dangerous journey of fifteen miles to visit his old schoolfellow, now on the staff of a General commanding a division. He was challenged and so was his companion; their faces expressed the long strain of a terrible war; both looked years older than their actual age, for, like the sons and daughters of the worshippers of Moloch, “they had passed through the fire.” Shafto was fine-drawn to leanness, heavy lines were scored on his forehead, he had twice been wounded, had taken part in desperate fighting, witnessed many harrowing sights, and lost many friends. The chill air was full of sounds; a continuous rolling of wheels, rumbling of guns, and the distant scream of a shell. “There goes a signal to lengthen the German range,” remarked Shafto. “That’s right, for they often show up lights that mean nothing.” “Look at that aeroplane of ours dropping red stars over the Boches’ first line of trenches. I suppose the lines are fairly close?” “By Jove, you may say so! The men can shout across at one another, but the trenches are a good four miles from where we stand.” As he concluded, a star shell broke and lit up a vast expanse of gleaming mud. To the rolling and rumbling was now added a far-away sound of tramping feet and song. “Here they come!” exclaimed Tremenheere; “back to billets; they changed at six o’clock, but it’s heavy going—mostly wading in slosh.” The marching came nearer and nearer, also the sound of singing and mouth-organs. “‘Michigan,’” said Shafto, “is a favourite; poor old ‘Tipperary’ is down and out.” Presently the force which had been relieved, muddy to the waist, but splendidly cheerful, splashed into the great courtyard. “Irish,” explained Tremenheere; “magnificent fellows, born fighters.” They watched the men as they fell out and scattered to their quarters in outhouses, barns and offices; and then Shafto and his friends made their way into the battered old chateau, and temporary Orderly room—once a lady’s boudoir. It still exhibited strips of artistic wall-paper, a cracked mirror, a beautiful Louis XIV. cabinet stacked with papers, a few rude chairs, a couple of wooden tables. Presently a sergeant-major came in to report, a fine stalwart fellow with a heavy black moustache and, in spite of his muddy waders, an air of complete self-possession. Having saluted and handed over his papers, his quick blue eyes rested on Shafto. He started, saluted, and said: