self was wounded, to give
first aid. And then again came unconsciousness.

So, in the black night, in the shell-made cavern with the pall of
flame-streaked battle smoke hanging over it, and the whining,
screaming missiles from guns of friend and foe weaving a curtain of
tangled threads above it, this young soldier of the American Legion,
his breast shot half in two, his rich blood reddening the soil of
France, lay steeped in merciful oblivion.

CHAPTER XIII

When Colonel Butler declared his intention of going to New York and
Washington to consult with his friends about the great war, to urge
active participation in it by the United States, and to offer to the
proper authorities, his services as a military expert and commander,
his daughter protested vigorously. It was absurd, she declared, for
him, at his age, to think of doing anything of the kind; utterly
preposterous and absurd. But he would not listen to her. His mind was
made up, and she was entirely unable to divert him from his purpose.

"Then I shall go with you," she declared.

"May I ask," he inquired, "what your object is in wishing to accompany
me?"

"Because you're not fit to go alone. You're too old and feeble, and
something might happen to you."

He turned on her a look of infinite scorn.

"Age," he replied, "is no barrier to patriotism. A man's obligation to
serve his country is not measured by his years. I have never been more
capable of taking the field against an enemy of civilization than I am
at this moment. To suggest that I am not fit to travel unless
accompanied by a female member of my family falls little short of
being gross disrespect. I shall go alone."

Again she protested, but she was utterly unable to swerve him a hair's
breadth from his determination and purpose. So she was obliged to see
him start off by himself on his useless and Quixotic errand. She knew
that he would return disappointed, saddened, doubly depressed, and ill
both in body and mind.

Since Pen's abrupt departure to seek a home with his Grandpa Walker,
Colonel Butler had not been so obedient to his daughter's wishes. He
had changed in many respects. He had grown old, white-haired, feeble
and despondent. He was often ill at ease, and sometimes morose. That
he grieved over the boy's absence there was not a shadow of doubt. Yet
he would not permit the first suggestion of a reconciliation that did
not involve the humble application of his grandson to be fo