to
sleep.

When I awoke, stiff and sore, it was to find breakfast ready and old man
Nelson in charge. As we were seated, Craig came in, and I saw that he
was not the man of the night before. His courage had come back, his face
was quiet and his eye clear; he was his own man again.

'Geordie has been out all night, but has failed to find Billy,' he
announced quietly.

We did not talk much; Graeme and I worried with our broken bones,
and the others suffered from a general morning depression. But, after
breakfast, as the men were beginning to move, Craig took down his Bible,
and saying--

'Wait a few minutes, men!' he read slowly, in his beautiful clear voice,
that psalm for all fighters--

'God is our refuge and strength,'

and soon to the noble words--

'The Lord of Hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our refuge.'

How the mighty words pulled us together, lifted us till we grew ashamed
of our ignoble rage and of our ignoble depression!

And then Craig prayed in simple, straight-going words. There was
acknowledgement of failure, but I knew he was thinking chiefly of
himself; and there was gratitude, and that was for the men about him,
and I felt my face burn with shame; and there was petition for help,
and we all thought of Nixon, and Billy, and the men wakening from their
debauch at Slavin's this pure, bright morning. And then he asked that we
might be made faithful and worthy of God, whose battle it was. Then we
all stood up and shook hands with him in silence, and every man knew a
covenant was being made. But none saw his meeting with Nixon. He sent us
all away before that.

Nothing was heard of the destruction of the hotel stock-in-trade.
Unpleasant questions would certainly be asked, and the proprietor
decided to let bad alone. On the point of respectability the success of
the ball was not conspicuous, but the anti-League men were content, if
not jubilant.

Billy Breen was found by Geordie late in the afternoon in his own
old and deserted shack, breathing heavily, covered up in his filthy,
mouldering bed-clothes, with a half-empty bottle of whisky at his side.
Geordie's grief and rage were beyond even his Scotch control. He spoke
few words, but these were of such concentrated vehemence that no one
felt the need of Abe's assistance in vocabulary.

Poor Billy! We carried him to Mrs. Mavor's home; put him in a warm bath,
rolled him in blankets, and gave him little sips of hot water, th