to the brink of a jagged cliff. Beyond lay the empty waters.

"Look," said Doe, a little dreamily; "now we shall see what we shall
see."

We lay down on the cliff-edge in the attitude of the sphinx, and
brought our powerful field-glasses into play. And through them we
saw, in the far-off haze, things that accelerated the beating of our
hearts.

There, right away across forty miles of blue AEgean, was a vague,
grey line of land. It was broken in the middle as if it opened a
channel to let the sea through. The grey land, west of the break,
was the end of Europe, the sinister Peninsula of Gallipoli. The
break itself, bathed in a gentle mist, was the deadly opening to the
Dardanelles. Presumably, one of those hill-tops, just visible, was
old Achi Baba, which had defeated the invaders of Helles; and
another, Sari Bair, beneath which lay the invaders of Suvla,
wondering if they, too, had been beaten by a paltry hill.

The entrancing sight was bound to work upon Doe's nature. Still
looking through his glasses, he asked:

"I say, Roop, what's the most appealing name that the War has given
to the history of Britain--Mons, or Ypres, or Coronel, or what?"

"Gallipoli," I replied, knowing this was the answer he wanted.

"Just so. And shall I tell you why?"

"Yes, thanks. If you'll be so obliging."

"Well, it's because the strongest appeal that can be addressed to
the emotional qualities of humanity is made by the power called
Pathos--"

"Good heavens!" I began.

"And there, my boy," pursued Doe, "in picture-form before you, this
humid afternoon, is the answer to your question."

"But it was your question," I suggested.

"Don't be a fool, Rupert. Ask me what I mean."

"What the deuce do you mean?"

"I mean this: that the romantic genius of Britain is beginning to
see the contour of Gallipoli invested with a mist of sadness, and
presenting an appearance like a mirage of lost illusions."

I told him that he was very poetical this afternoon, whereupon he
sat up and, having put his field-glasses in their case, made this
irrelevant remark:

"Do you remember the central tower of Truro Cathedral, near my
home?"

"Yes."

"Well, do you think it's anything like a lily? For mercy's sake say
it is."

"Why?" I demanded.

"And it does change colour in the changing light, doesn't it,
Rupert? Say 'Yes,' you fool--say 'Yes.'"

"Why?"

"Oh, because I've written--I've written some verses about it--when I
was a bit ho