On opening the packet which Eanswyth had put into his hand at parting, Eustace found it to consist of a little antique silver tobacco-box, beautifully chased. This contained a photograph of herself, and a letter; the last a short, hurriedly penned note, which, perused there alone, with all the desolation of the recent parting fresh upon him, was effectual to thrill his heart to the very core. "And now," it ended--"And now, oh, my precious one, good-bye--I dare not say `God bless you.' Coming from me it would entail a curse rather than a blessing. I am too wicked. Yet, is our love so wicked? Could it be so divinely, so beautifully sweet if it were? Ah, I neither know nor care. I only know that were anything to befall you--were you never to come back to me--my heart would be broken. Yes, broken. And yet, it would be only just that I should suffer through you. Good-bye, my dearest one--my only love. We may not meet again alone before you start, but I want you, in all your dangers and hardships, to have always with you these poor little lines, coming, as they do, warm from my hand and heart--" The writing broke off abruptly and there were signs that more than one tear had fallen upon the silent, but oh, so eloquent paper. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. IN THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY. "Hi, Hoste, Eustace! Tumble up! We are to start in half an hour." It is dark as Erebus--dark as it can only be an hour or so before daybreak. The camp-fires have long since gone out and it is raining heavily. The speaker, stooping down, puts his head into a patrol tent wherein two sleepers lie, packed like sardines. A responsive grunt or two and Hoste replies without moving. "Bosh! None of your larks, Tom. Why, it's pitch dark, and raining as if some fellow were bombarding the tent with a battery of garden hoses." "Tom can't sleep himself, so he won't let us. Mean of him--to put it mildly," remarks the other occupant of the tent, with a cavernous yawn. "But it isn't bosh," retorts Carhayes testily. "I tell you we are to start in half an hour, so now you know," and he withdraws, growling something about not standing there jawing to them all day. Orders were orders, and duty was duty. So arousing themselves from their warm lair the two sleepers rubbed their eyes and promptly began to look to their preparations. "By Jove!" remarked Eustace as a big, cold drop hit him on the crown of the head, while two more fell on the blanket he had just cast off. "Now one can solve the riddle as to what becomes of all the played out sieves. They are bought up by Government Contractors for the manufacture of canvas for patrol tents." "The _riddle_! Yes. That's about the appropriate term, as witness the state of the canvas."