"No, he was not a Catholic," whispered May Margaret. She felt as if she must drop on her knees and call on the mute earth to speak, to explain, to tell her who lay beneath. "There must be a mistake," she said at last, and her own voice rang in her ears like the voice of a stranger. "I must find out. How can I find out?" Her face was bloodless as she confronted Captain Crump. "There's some terrible mistake," she said again. "I can't face his people at home till I find out. He may be--" But that awful word of hope died on her lips. "I'll do my best," said Captain Crump. "It's very odd, certainly; but I shouldn't--er--hope for too much. You see, if he were living, they wouldn't have been likely to overlook it. It's possible that he may be there, or there." He pointed to two graves without a name. "Or again, he may be missing, of course, or a prisoner. His lot are down at Arras now. We'll get into touch with them to-morrow and I'll make inquiries. You want to pass a night in the trenches, don't you? I think it can be arranged for you to go to that section to-morrow night. Then we can kill two birds with one stone." May Margaret thanked him. Behind them, she heard, with that strange sense of double meanings which the most commonplace accidents of life can awake at certain moments--the voice of one of the correspondents, still arguing with the others. "Here, if you like, is Shakespeare," he said: "_How should I your true love know From another one._" The quotation, lilted inanely as a nursery rime, pierced her heart like a flight of silver arrows. "You have not a very pleasant business," the correspondent continued, addressing a soldier at work in an open grave. "I've 'ad two years in the trenches, sir, and I'm glad to get it," he replied. "Little Christian crosses, planted against the heathen, creeping nearer and nearer to the Rhine," murmured Julian Sinclair, on the other side of May Margaret. The multiplicity of the ways in which it seemed possible for both soldiers and civilians to regard the war was beginning to rob her of the power to think. On their way back, through the dusk, they passed a body of men marching to the trenches, with a song that she had heard Brian humming: "_Fat Fritz went out, all camouflaged, like a beautiful bumble-bee, With daffodil stripes and 'airy legs to see what he could see, By the light of the moon, in No Man's Land, he climbed an apple tree And he put on his big round spectacles, to look for gay Paree._ _But I don't suppose he'll do it again For months, and months, and months; But I don't suppose he'll do it again For months, and month, and months; For Archie is only a third class shot, But he brought him down at once,_ _AND_ _I don't suppose he'll do it again For months, and months, and months._"