stood by
the ship's rail as she moved quietly up Southampton Water, to berth in
due course alongside a pier and a hospital train. Mac had dreamed that
it might be so, though he scarcely dared to hope that it would come
true; but the gangway was scarcely down before his father and his
sister were on the deck and had him in their arms. In the middle of
the afternoon the hospital train stopped at a Surrey station; and
before very long he was being undressed, bathed and put to bed.
Presently, the sister, the medical officer, his father and his sister
withdrew quietly from the bright little room, saying that he must go to
sleep after the excitements of the day. And to sleep Mac went, feeling
more comfortable and happy than he had been for many a long day.

CHAPTER XXV

HOMEWARD

The tents sway and flap vigorously as gusts of wind tear through the
camp, carrying clouds of sand across the island. Through the darkness
comes the sound of the lashing of the date palms and the tamarisks as
they swing to the gale. Within a straining, war-worn tent, lit by a
flickering candle, stuck in a grease-streaked bottle, sit several
mounted men of the old Brigade, their faces brown and weather-beaten
from long campaigning in the Sinai Desert and amid Palestine hills.
The gear and stuff scattered casually about the tent tell it is the
abode of an old hand of long service, who worries little about the
frills of base and peace-time armies. And there, too, sprawled
half-way across a camp bed is Mac. They yarn about old times,
Gallipoli days and after, laughing often, though sometimes in
affectionate, quieter tones they speak of a fallen comrade. It is
midnight, the ill-used candle has not many minutes of life to run, and
the desert wind bellows over the camp.

Three and a half years have passed since Mac found himself in the
comfortable security of an English hospital--far from unpleasant years,
during which the comradeship of his fellow-soldiers, and the kindness
of many friends have fully made good the sight Mac lost on the summit
of Chanak Bair. He has not lost touch with the men of the
Expeditionary Force during their long weary years in France and
Palestine, but has worked among them to the best of his limited powers.
And now this stormy night in March 1919 finds him again with his old
comrades of the Mounted Brigade, who, with a glorious campaign behind
them, are resting for a while on an island on Lake Timsah till a
t