a sort of string of big metal balls round their
waist. Then a dozen regiments went by, every man with a steel shield
slung over his shoulder. The last to go by were cross-bowmen."

In fact, it appeared to Delamere Smith that he watched the passing of
a host of men in mediaeval armour before him, and yet he knew--by the
position of the sun and of a rosy cloud that was passing over the
Worm's Head--that this vision, or whatever it was, only lasted a
second or two. Then that slight sense of shock returned, and Smith
returned to the contemplation of the physical phenomena of the
Pembrokeshire coast--blue waves, grey St. Margaret's, and Caldy Abbey
white in the sunlight.

It will be said, no doubt, and very likely with truth, that Smith fell
asleep on Giltar, and mingled in a dream the thought of the great war
just begun with his smatterings of mediaeval battle and arms and
armour. The explanation seems tolerable enough.

But there is the one little difficulty. It has been said that Smith is
now Lieutenant Smith. He got his commission last autumn, and went out
in May. He happens to speak French rather well, and so he has become
what is called, I believe, an officer of liaison, or some such term.
Anyhow, he is often behind the French lines.

He was home on short leave last week, and said:

"Ten days ago I was ordered to ----. I got there early in the morning,
and had to wait a bit before I could see the General. I looked about
me, and there on the left of us was a farm shelled into a heap of
ruins, with one round chimney standing, shaped like the 'Flemish'
chimneys in Pembrokeshire. And then the men in armour marched by, just
as I had seen them--French regiments. The things like battle-maces
were bomb-throwers, and the metal balls round the men's waists were
the bombs. They told me that the cross-bows were used for
bomb-shooting.

"The march I saw was part of a big movement; you will hear more of it
before long."

The Bowmen And Other Noble Ghosts

By "The Londoner"

There was a journalist--and the _Evening News_ reader well knows the
initials of his name--who lately sat down to write a story.

* *

Of course his story had to be about the war; there are no other
stories nowadays. And so he wrote of English soldiers who, in the dusk
on a field of France, faced the sullen mass of the oncoming Huns. They
were few against fearful odds, but, as they sent the breech-bolt h