Hour after hour passed away, and still she could not make up her mind. In spite of Harry Briarfield's words she had not forgotten the lad from whom she had parted months before. Why was it? She thought she had forgotten him. He had been unworthy of her; he had taken up with a girl whom she despised, a coarse, vulgar girl, and she had heard since that Polly Powell had been walking out with a number of young men. And Tom had preferred this kind of creature to her love. Her pride had been wounded, her self-respect had been shocked, and yet even now, while she was thinking of Harry Briarfield's proposal, her mind reverted to the boy who had gone away as a soldier. The Town Hall clock boomed out the hour of midnight. Alice found herself mechanically counting the strokes of the deep-toned bell. Then she fell on her knees beside the bed, but the prayer which she had been wont to pray did not come to her lips. Her thoughts were far away; she pictured a distant battlefield; she imagined the boom of guns; she heard the clash of bayonets; she thought she heard the cries of wounded men, too; then a prayer involuntarily came to her lips: "O God, save him! O God, help him and protect him!" Thus it came to pass at the time Tom Pollard tried for the first time in many months to pray, and to formulate his distracted thoughts, Alice Lister was kneeling by her bedside also trying to pray. CHAPTER VII Tom Pollard's mind was suddenly brought back to mundane things. It was now nearly one o'clock in the morning, and the night was chilly; a breeze having sprung up, the clouds had rolled away. He distinctly heard a shout, and as far as he could make out it came from the German trenches, which were not far away. "Holloa!" "Holloa!" said Tom, "what is it?" He thought one of the other men on patrol duty had spoken to him. "You belong to the Lancashires, don't you?" "Of course I do," replied Tom; "what of that?" He was able to locate the voice now, and knew it came from a German trench. "I have got something to tell you," and the words were followed by a laugh. Whoever it was spoke in perfectly good English, although with a German accent. "I reckon it'll be lies," was Tom's reply. By this time another sentry, hearing Tom's voice, had rushed up to him. "What is it? Who goes there?" he called out. "Listen," whispered Tom, "it's one of the Bosches speaking to me. What is it?" he asked aloud. "Only this," and the German laughed as he spoke: "you Lancashires are going to attack us at six o'clock to-morrow morning, eleven hundred strong, and we're ready for you. That's all," and again the German laughed. "What does he mean?" said Tom to the man who stood by his side. "I know nothing about any attack. Do you?" "I knows there's something on foot," replied the other, "but what it is I don't know." "Do you think we ought to tell one of the officers?" "Nay, it's not worth the trouble," was the reply; "besides, it's only a bit of bluff."