ether Death was a servant of God or the Devil, in some way it would
make a difference with his own personal life hereafter, how he met Death.
He was not satisfied with just meeting Death bravely, with the ardor of
patriotism in his breast, as he heard so many about him talk in these
days. That was well so far as it went, but it did not solve the mystery
of the future life nor make him sure how he would stand in that other
world to which Death stood ready to escort him presently. Death might be
victor over his body, but he wanted to be sure that Death should not also
kill that something within him which he felt must live forever. He turned
it over for days and came to the conclusion that the only one who could
help him was God. God was the beginning of it all. If there was a God He
must be available to help a soul in a time like this. There must be a way
to find God and get the secret of life, and so be ready to meet Death
that Death should not conquer anything but the body. How could one find
God? Had anybody ever found Him? Did anyone really _think_ they had found
Him? These were questions that beat in upon his soul day after day as he
drilled his men and went through the long hard hours of discipline, or
lay upon his straw tick at night while a hundred and fifty other men
about him slept.

His mother's secret attempts at religion had been too feeble and too
hidden in her own breast to have made much of an impression upon him. She
had only _hoped_ her faith was founded upon a rock. She had not _known_.
And so her buffeted soul had never given evidence to her son of hidden
holy refuge where he might flee with her in time of need.

Now and then the vision of a girl blurred across his thoughts
uncertainly, like a bright moth hovering in the distance whose shadow
fell across his dusty path. But it was far away and vague, and only a
glance in her eyes belonged to him. She was not of his world.

He looked up to the yellow sky through the yellow dust, and his soul
cried out to find the way to God before he had to meet Death, but the
heavens seemed like molten brass. Not that he was afraid of death with a
physical fear, but that his soul recoiled from being conquered by it and
he felt convinced that there was a way to meet it with a smile of
assurance if only he could find it out. He had read that people had met
it that way. Was it all their imagination? The mere illusion of a
fanatical brain? Well, he would try to find out G