ious it must be under those trees--and there was a
narrow track which must lead straight to the Brussels road--the ground
looked soft and mossy and damp after the rain--oh! for the strength to
reach those leafy shadows, to plunge under that thicket and brush with
burning forehead against those soft green leaves heavy with moisture!
Oh! for the power to annihilate this distance of a few hundred yards
that lie between this immense graveyard open to wind and scorching sun,
and the green, cool moss and carpet of twigs and leaves and soft,
sweet-smelling earth, on which a weary body and desolate soul might find
eternal rest! . . .

V

On! on! through the forest of Soigne! There was no question as yet of
rest.

Maurice had not yet wakened from his trance. Bobby vaguely wondered if
he were not already dead. There was no stain of blood upon his fine
uniform, but it was just possible that in stumbling, running and falling
he had hit his head or received a blow which had deprived him of
consciousness directly after he had scrambled into the saddle.

Bobby remembered how pale and haggard he had looked and how his hand had
by the merest instinct clutched at the saddle-bow, and then had dropped
away from it--helpless and inert. Now he lay quite still with his head
resting against Bobby's shoulder.

Under the trees it was cool and the air was sweet and soothing: Bobby
with his left hand contrived to tear a handful of leaves from the
coppice as he passed: they were full of moisture and he pressed them
against Maurice's lips and against his own.

The forest was full of sounds: of running men and horses, the rattle of
wheels, and the calls of terror and of pain, with still and always that
awesome background of persistent cannonade. But Bobby heard nothing, saw
nothing save the narrow track in front of him, along which the horse now
ambled leisurely, and from time to time--when he looked down--the pale,
haggard face of the man whom Crystal loved.

At one moment Maurice opened his eyes and murmured feebly: "Where am I?"

"On the way to Brussels," Bobby contrived to reply.

A little later on horse and rider emerged out of the wood and the
Brussels road stretched out its long straight ribbon before Bobby
Clyffurde's dull, uncomprehending gaze.

Close by at his feet the milestone marked the last six kilometres to
Brussels. Only another half-dozen kilometres--only another hour's ride
at most! . . . Only!!! . . . when even now he