before, the whine
of shells, all bored their way into Dick Durwent's brain. He began to
tremble. With every bit of will-power he fought it off, but he felt
the fumes of madness coming over him.

For days on end he had had no rest. In the Fifth Army _debacle_ of
March his battalion had been one of the first to break, although
remnants had fought as few men had ever fought before; and when they
had been reorganised they were moved back into the line, undermanned,
ill-equipped, and branded with disgrace. It was the culmination of
three years' service at the front, and his nerves were at the
breaking-point. Mounds of earth ahead of him, and gnarled, dismembered
trees, began to take the ghostly shapes that the frightened boy had
told of.

Mumbling meaningless things, he reached for his water-bottle and poured
a mouthful of rum down his throat. It set his heart beating more
firmly, and his blood was no longer like ice in a sluggish river. He
replaced the stopper and resumed his watch, but every fibre of his body
was craving for more of the alcohol. With set teeth he struggled for
self-control, but every instinct was fighting against him. He took
another sip, then a long draught of the scorching liquid, and leaned
against the parapet. He pressed his hot face against the damp earth,
and burrowed his fingers into it in a frenzied effort for self-mastery.
Again he drank, and his mouth burned with the stuff. His head was
swimming, and he could hear surf breaking on a rocky coast. The dead
man was grinning at him, but death no longer held any terrors for him.
He raised the bottle in a mock toast and drank greedily of the rum
again.

The pounding of the waves puzzled him. He could not remember that they
were near any water. But more and more distinctly he could hear the
roll of surf dashed into spray against the shore. . . . It was
strange. . . . Once more he pressed the bottle to his lips, and it set
his very arteries on fire. Yes. Over to the left he could see the
glimmer of the ocean. There was a light; some one was beside it. It
was Elise! She was giving a signal. That was it--the smugglers were
landing their contraband, and she was signalling that all was clear.

He looked over to the dead man. The corpse was rising to its feet. It
had all been a hoax on its part--it was an excise officer. His eyes
were fixed on the light, too. His men would be near, and they would
capture Elise--and afterwards t