years, was so inadequate, so tinctured with smug complacency. Was there
a God?

The question left him mute.

'There are times,' went on Durwent, almost to himself, 'when my head is
full of strange fancies--when I'm listening to music--or at dawn like
this. While I was under arrest, a little French girl who had heard I was
to die brought some flowers she had picked for me. When I think of that
girl, and her flowers, and Elise, and the faithfulness of old Mathews, I
do believe there is some kind of a God. . . . Selwyn'--unconsciously his
hands stretched forward supplicatingly--'surely these things can't
die? . . . There's been so much that's ugly and lonely in my life. . . .
Don't you believe that we fellows who have failed will be able to have a
little of the things we've missed down here?'

'Dick,' said Selwyn hoarsely, 'I believe'----

The words faltered on his lips, and in silence the two men stood together
in the presence of the day's birth. There was a strange calm in the air.
The dew on the grass caught a faint sparkle from a ray of sunlight that
penetrated the eastern skies.

V.

'_The Boches, sir! They're coming!_'

The sergeant's warning rang out, and in an instant the air was shattered
with battle. Protected by the fire from a nest of machine-guns, the
Germans launched a converging attack towards the bridge. Waiting until
the advancing troops were too close to permit the aid of their own
machine-gun fire, the Americans poured a deadly hail of bullets into
their ranks. The attack broke, but fresh troops were thrown in, and the
line was penetrated at several points.

Van Derwater rallied his men, directed the defence, and time after time
organised or led counter-attacks which restored their position. His
voice rose sonorously above everything. Hearing it, and seeing his
powerful figure oblivious to the bullets which stung the air all about
him, his men yelled that they could never be beaten so long as he led
them.

Half-mad with excitement, Selwyn repelled the attacks on his sector,
though his casualties were heavy and ammunition was running low.
Durwent's mood of reverie had passed, and he fought with limitless
energy. Once, when the Huns had penetrated the road, one of their
officers levelled a revolver on him, but discharged the bullet into the
ground as the butt of Mathews's rifle was brought smashing on his wrist.
The old groom followed his master with eyes that saw only the danger