f the gods.

Not with the cry of 'Liberty!' or 'Freedom!' but merely as heirs to
British traditions, they took the field. Of a race that acts more on
instinct than on reason, they were true to their vision of Britain, and
asking no better fate than to die in her service, they helped to stem the
Prussian flood while home after home, in its ivy-covered seclusion,
learned that the last son, like his brothers, had 'played the game' to a
finish.

Let the men who cry for the remodelling of Britain--and progress must
have an unimpeded channel--let them try to bring to their minds the
Britain that men saw in August 1914, when catastrophe yawned in her path.
That picture holds the secret for the Great Britain of the future.

VI.

It was almost the last day in August, when the little British Army was
fighting desperately against unthinkable odds, that a brigade of cavalry
made a brave but futile charge to try to break the German grip. The --th
Hussars was one of the regiments that took part, and only a remnant
returned.

Staring with fixed, unseeing eyes at the blue of the sky, which was not
unlike the colour of his eyes, the Honourable Malcolm Durwent lay on the
field of battle, with a bullet through his heart.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MAN OF SOLITUDE.

I.

In a large room overlooking St. James's Square a man sat writing. In
the shaded light his face showed haggard, and his eyes gleamed with the
brilliancy of one whose blood is lit with a fever.

The clocks had just struck nine when he paused in his work, and
crossing to the French windows, which opened on a little terrace,
looked out at the darkened square. The restless music of London's life
played on his tired pulses. He heard the purring of limousines gliding
into Pall Mall, and the vibrato of taxi-cabs whipped into action by the
piercing blast of club-porters' whistles. The noise of horses' hoofs
on the pavement echoed among the roof-tops of the houses, and beneath
those outstanding sounds was the quiet staccato of endless passing
feet, losing itself in the murmur of the November wind as it searched
among the dead leaves lying in the little park.

He had remained there only a few minutes, when, as though he had lost
too much time already, the writer returned to the table and resumed his
pen.

There was a knock at the door, and he looked up with a start. 'Come
in,' he said; and a man-servant entered.

'Will you be wanting anything, Mr. Selwyn?'