line in a gentle
rise, and finally met the sky in the summit of Achi Baba. That was
the whole landscape--a plateau overlooked by a gentle hill.

And here on this sea-girt headland the land-fight had been fought.
No wonder the region was covered with the scars and waste of war.
Our journey took us past old trenches and gun-positions; disused
telephone lines and rusting, barbed wire; dead mules, scattered
cemeteries, and solitary graves.

And not a grave did we pass without examining it to see if it bore
the name of White. Our progress, therefore, was very slow, for, like
highwaymen, these graves held us up and bade us stand and inquire if
they housed our friend. Whenever we saw an isolated cross some
distance away, we left our tracks to approach it, anxious not to
pass, lest this were he. And then, quite unexpectedly, we came upon
twenty graves side by side under one over-arching tree, which bore
the legend: "Pink Farm Cemetery." And Doe said:

"There it is, Rupert."

He said it with deliberate carelessness, as if to show that he was
one not easily excited by sudden surprises.

"Where--where?" I asked.

"There--'Lieutenant R. White, Royal Dublin Fusiliers.'"

"Good Lord!" I muttered: for it was true. We had walked right on to
the grave of our friend. His name stood on a cross with those of six
other officers, and beneath was written in pencil the famous
epitaph:

"Tell England, ye who pass this monument,
We died for her, and here we rest content."

The perfect words went straight to Doe's heart.

"Roop," he said, "if I'm killed you can put those lines over me."

I fear I could not think of anything very helpful to reply.

"They are rather swish," I murmured.

CHAPTER XIII

"LIVE DEEP, AND LET THE LESSER THINGS LIVE LONG"

Sec.1

One thing I shall always believe, and it is that Doe found on the
Peninsula that intense life, that life of multiplied sensations,
which he always craved in the days when he said: "I want to have
lived."

You would understand what I mean if you could have seen this Brigade
Bombing Officer of ours hurling his bombs at a gentleman whom he
called "the jolly old Turk." Generally he threw them with a jest on
his lips. "One hundred and _two_. One hundred and _three_," he would
say. "Over she goes, and thank the Lord I'm not in the opposite
trench. BANG! I told you so. Stretcher-bearers for the Turks,
please." Or he would hurl the bomb high into the a