ady there, while tens of thousands more were preparing to
leave. The heart of the Empire was moved, and her sons were offering
themselves, many thousands every day, to fight her battles.

"How many men have we at the front?" we often asked.

No one knew, although we hazarded many guesses. But we knew that we
were doing what we could, that a great river of humanity was flowing
into France, and that hundreds of thousands of our bravest hearts were
beating on foreign soil, and that no matter how many men fell wounded
or dead, ten times their number could and would be supplied.

Bob's heart thrilled as he thought of it. He was only an obscure
youth, who had first fought his battle on the solitary battlefield of
his own soul, and then, as a consequence, could no longer keep himself
from throwing himself into this great light against tyranny and
militarism.

They were marching towards the firing-line! The boom of the guns
sounded more and more near. Sometimes above the steady tramp, tramp of
the soldiers they thought they heard the ghastly whistle of the shells
as they went on their mission of death.

Bob looked on the faces of the men as they marched. Yes, it was easy
to see by the steely glitter of their eyes, the tightly compressed
lips, that every nerve was in tension, that they knew they were
entering the danger zone. Many were praying who had not prayed for
years, while others, careless of life or death, marched forward, with a
laugh on their lips.

It is not for me to describe what took place during the next few days.
Indeed, I could not if I would. First, the news which has reached me
concerning them is scanty--so scanty that even if I recorded every word
of it, it would add but little interest to the narrative I am writing.
More than that, I am utterly ignorant of the art of war, and if I tried
to describe in anything like detail the events which have been related
to me, I should, doubtless, fall into many mistakes, and convey
altogether wrong impressions. Besides, I am not so much writing the
story of the war, as the story of Robert Nancarrow, and of what has
befallen him these last few weeks.

For the first fortnight after Bob joined the British forces at the
front, he was disappointed at not being placed in the fighting-line.
Moreover, his duties seemed to him of an unimportant nature, such as
could have been performed by the most unintelligent. He saw others
take the places which he longed to oc