ways too truthful, anyway."

"Well, sir," said Barry, turning to the colonel. "I'm awfully glad to
find you here. I was afraid I'd lost you."

"Well, gentlemen," said the colonel, "you have all got your orders. Does
any one want to ask a question? Well, then, it's pretty simple after
all. Two companies advance as far as Maple Copse, and gradually work up
until they feel the enemy, then put in a block and hold against attack,
at all costs. The other two companies are to follow up in support at
Zillebeck Village. Later on, when our reserves come up, and when our
guns return--I hear they are pushing them up rapidly--we are promised
a go at those devils. Meantime we have got to hold on, but I expect the
battalion will be pulled out very shortly."

The flickering candles lit up the faces of the men crowding the dugout.
They were elaborately careless and jolly, but their eyes belied their
faces. Under the careless air there was a tense and stern look of
expectation. They were all sportsmen, and had all experienced the
anxious nervous thrill of the moments preceding a big contest. Once the
ball was off, their nervousness would go, and they would be cool and
wary, playing the game for all they had in them.

"Now, gentlemen," said the colonel, as they prepared to leave the
dugout, "before I let you go, there is one thing I want to say. It's a
tradition of the British army that any soldier or officer who has lost
his unit marches toward the sound of the guns. I am proud to-night that
we have an example of that old tradition here. We left our chaplain
behind, and he didn't know where his battalion had gone, but he moved
toward the sound of the guns. That is what I would expect from any
of you, gentlemen, but it's none the less gratifying to find one's
expectations realised."

Only his flaming face revealed Barry's emotion as the colonel was
speaking.

"Now then, gentlemen, carry on, and the best of luck."

"Sir," said Barry, "what about a little prayer?"

"Fine," said the colonel heartily, while round the room there ran a
murmur of approval.

Barry pulled out his little Bible and read, not one of the "fighting
psalms" but the tenderly exquisite words of the Shepherd's song. His
voice was clear, steady and ringing with cheery confidence. His prayer
was in the spirit of the psalm, breathing high courage and calm trust,
even in the presence of the ultimate issue.

In a single sentence he commended his comrades to the keep