usion, but he only took one step; the uselessness of it all
appealed to him. What could he do, what could he say? He had made his
decision, taken his stand, and must be ready to suffer.

Then he remembered what Captain Trevanion had said at the close of the
golf match:

"In this field of battle you have beaten me, but in the next I shall be
the conqueror."

"Yes," said Bob, and he silently made his way home. "I have lost her.
I have lost everything, but what could I do?"

CHAPTER IX

"Mother," said Bob, on his return home, "I shall be leaving St. Ia
to-morrow morning."

"What! going away, Eh?" said Mrs. Nancarrow, looking at him
searchingly. For days she had been hoping that he would see it his
duty to offer himself to his country, and yet all the time dreading the
thought of parting from him.

"Where are you going?"

"To Oxford," he replied.

"Then you are not going to enlist?"

He shook his head. "I am going to Oxford," he repeated.

"Bob, my dear, we have not seemed to understand each other just lately.
I am afraid I spoke unkindly to you the other day, and as a consequence
there has been a lack of trust. Won't you tell me all about it?"

"There is nothing to tell, mother; I simply cannot do what you expect
me to, that is all. You see I believe in what my father taught me,"
and he looked towards the fireplace, over which hung Dr. Nancarrow's
picture. "Perhaps it is in my blood, perhaps---- I don't know;
anyhow, I think my hand would shrivel up if I tried to sign my name as
a soldier."

"But you have a mother, Bob, a mother whose name was Trelawney, and the
Trelawneys have never failed in time of need. Are you going to be the
first to fail, Bob? Oh, please don't think I do not dread the thought
of your going to the front, and perhaps being killed; but I cannot bear
the thought that my boy should shirk his duty to his country. Tell me,
Bob, why do you want to play the coward?"

"Play the coward! Great God, mother! don't you understand me? I
simply long to go. It seems to me as though everything in life worth
having depends on my doing what you and others want me to do. But how
can I! I hate talking about it, it sounds so pharisaical, but my
father wanted me to be a Christian, and you know what Christianity
meant to him. As I have said again and again, it comes to this--either
war is wrong and hellish, or Christianity is a fable. Both cannot be
right. And if I went as a soldi