es more and more on the value of the
individual soldier, and in this we see one of the main factors which
will mean German defeat. Take the case of the heroism of a sergeant
who, seeing his officer seriously wounded, himself assumed command of
his company and led them victoriously to the third line. There he fell
in his turn, but one of the men immediately took his place and
completed the conquest of the objective. It is thanks to such acts
that . . . has been seized, crossed and left behind."

When Hadassah and Margaret looked up, they met Michael's eyes. They
were looking into the things beyond, things very far from Clarges
Street.

"That was my sergeant," he said, "the finest fellow that ever wore
shoe-leather!"

"And the Tommy," Hadassah said, "has he been promoted?"

Michael's eyes dropped; his tanned skin flushed slightly.

"Of course he'll have to take a commission if it's offered to him. He
can't very well refuse. He has proved his ability to lead, poor chap!
I expect he'd rather remain as he was. I know I would--it's a terrible
responsibility, inspiring your men as well as teaching them, but one
can't shelter oneself while others face greater risks."

Hadassah's quick brain read the truth, while Margaret merely lost
herself in visualizing the dangers which Michael would so soon have to
face. The twelve days would be gone so soon that they were scarcely
worth counting.

From the war their sketchy talk returned again to Michael's experiences
in the desert. He told them briefly about the saint, omitting the
nature of his illness. He spoke so naturally and unguardedly about
Millicent, and of his annoyance at her appearance and at her
persistence in remaining, that if there had been any lingering doubt in
Hadassah's mind upon the subject of his absolute loyalty to Margaret,
it was completely dispersed.

When he was hurriedly telling them about the meeting of the saint and
all about his knowledge of the hidden treasure, and how completely it
tallied with the African's prophecies, he produced a tiny parcel from
his pocket-book. He handed it to Margaret, who felt as if she had been
listening to the last chapter of a long story from _The Arabian Nights_.

The little packet was made up of many folds of tissue-paper. With
nervous fingers Margaret unwrapped it.

When the last piece was discarded and she saw that uncut jewel lying
against the palm of her hand, she gave a cry of delight mixed with
ap