Willie let off sundry curses. 'But I suppose I'm to blame,' he said bitterly. 'Naebody to blame but masel'.' 'But did ye no explain to Christina? A' ye did was to canoodle wi' the wrang girl, pro tem.--a thing that happens daily. I couldna fancy a girl that naebody had ever wanted to cuddle; an' if I was a girl I couldna fancy a chap that----' 'Nae use talkin' aboot it, Wullie,' Macgregor said sadly, wearily. 'Aw, but her an' you 'll mak' it up afore ye're done. If ye dinna, I'll want to kill masel' an' Maggie forbye. A' the same, I wisht fat Maggie was here the noo. I could dae fine wi' a bit squeeze.' 'My! ye're a fair treat!' said Macgregor, chuckling in his misery. ''_Sh_! Keep still! Something comin'!' The distant gun-fire had diminished. There were appreciable silences between the blasts. But during a flash Macgregor detected a helmeted crawling shape. Willie's hand stole out and grasped the bayonet. 'Number twa!' he muttered, with a stealthy movement. 'I maun get him!' But Macgregor's ears caught a faint sound that caused him to grip the other's wrist. 'Wait,' he whispered. The helmeted shape came on, looking neither to right nor left, and as it came it sobbed. And it passed within a few yards of them, and into the deeper gloom, sobbing, sobbing. 'Oh, Christ!' sighed Willie, shuddering. 'Put yer arm roun' me, Mac. I'm feart.' Five minutes later he affected to jeer at himself. 'Weel, I'm rested noo,' he continued, 'an' it's time we was gettin' a move on. Mornin's comin', an' if we're spotted here, we're done for. Can ye creep?' Macgregor tried and let out a little yelp. 'Na, ye canna. Ye'll jist ha'e to get on ma back.' 'Wullie, gang yersel'----' 'Obey yer corporal!' 'Ye're no a corp----' 'If they dinna mak' me a corporal for this, I'll quit the service! Onyway, I'm no gaun wi'oot ye. Same time, I canna guarantee no to tak' ye to the German lines. But we maun risk that. Ye'll ha'e to leave yer rifle, but keep on the dish-cover till I gi'e ye the word. . . . Noo then! Nae hurry. I'll ha'e to creep the first part o' the journey. Are ye ready? Weel, here's luck to the twa o' us!' There is no authentic description of that horrible journey save Willie's, which is unprintable. It was performed literally by inches. More than once Willie collapsed, groaning, under his burden. Macgregor, racked as he was, shed tears for his friend's sake. Time had no significance except as a measure of suspense and torture. But Willie held on, directed by some instinct, it seemed, over that awful shell-fragment-studded mire, round the verges of shell-formed craters, past dead and wounded waiting for succour--on, on, till the very guns seemed to have grown weary, and the rain ceased, and the air grew chillier as with dread of what the dawn should disclose, and the blackness was diluted to grey. 'Drap the ---- dish-cover,' croaked Willie, and halted for a minute's rest.