“Come, I say, Douglas, this is a bit too much!” “But it’s a fact. He had been a soldier for six or seven years, got a bad stroke in the jungle, was taken in by Burmans, and was for seven years a _pongye_. When the war broke out he flung off his yellow robe, paid his passage to England, and is here, as you see, in his element.” “It’s amazing—incredible—but incredible things come off nowadays.” Shafto nodded. “If he gets through this, do you suppose he will return to his monastry?” “Never! It is his fixed intention to go to Ireland; he has some money, and hopes to settle down on his own little farm.” “I’m afraid he’s some way off that yet; in the meanwhile, he is seeing a good bit of life.” “And death,” mentally added Shafto. “I say,” exclaimed Tremenheere, glancing at his wrist-watch, “it’s time for our dinner—come on!” In the autumn of the same year, Shafto, who had again been severely wounded, was granted a month’s leave, and he and Sophy were married. It was the usual war wedding, no bridesmaids and no reception. Among the friends, “welcome at the church,” were the Gregorys, Tebbs, Larchers, MacNabs, Mrs. Malone, Mr. Hutton, and the Tremenheeres. Captain Tremenheere supported his friend as best man. One specially bidden guest was absent from the gathering. He lay beneath a black wooden cross, near by to Guinchy, where gallant Irish regiments had immortalised their colours. Alas! Sergeant-Major Michael Ryan was among the missing. To the unspeakable grief of his comrades, he had gone West—but not to Ireland.