uff?'

'Smell that, sir,' said the subaltern of the night, handing him a
water-bottle.

'Humph! This looks bad. Have him carried to the rear and placed under
arrest.'

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SENTENCE.

I.

On the outskirts of a village near the junction of the British and
French armies, two guards with loaded rifles kept watch at the doors of
a hut. The warm sunlight of May was bathing the fields in gold, where
here and there a peasant woman could be seen sprinkling seed into the
furrows. Across a field, cutting its way through a farmyard, a light
railway carried its occasional wobbling, narrow-gauged traffic; and
outside half-a-dozen huts soldiers were lolling in the warmth of early
afternoon, polishing accoutrements and exchanging the lazy philosophy
of men resting after herculean tasks. Elsewhere there was no sign of
war. Cattle browsed about the meadows, and the villagers, long since
grown used to the presence of foreign soldiers, pursued their endless
duties.

A sergeant walked briskly from a cottage in the village and went
directly to the field where lay the hut guarded by the sentries. 'Fall
in outside!' he said sharply, opening the door.

Bareheaded, and with his dark hair seeming to cast the shadows that had
gathered beneath his eyes, Dick Durwent emerged and took his place
between the guards.

'To receive the sentence of the court,' said the sergeant in answer to
his questioning glance. 'Escort and prisoner--'shun! Right turn!
Quick march!'

Past the lounging soldiers to the road, and on to the village, they
marched. Women glanced up, curious as to the meaning of the little
procession, but with a shrug of their shoulders resumed their work, and
soon forgot all about it. The escort halted outside the cottage from
which the sergeant had come, and he entered it alone. A minute later
he reappeared, and marched prisoner and guards into the room where the
court-martial had been held that morning. The three officers were
sitting in the same places--a lieutenant-colonel, whose set, sun-tanned
face told nothing; a captain, whose firmness of jaw and steadiness of
eye could not hide his twitching lip; and a subaltern, pale as Dick
Durwent himself.

As president of the court, the senior officer handed a sealed envelope
to the prisoner. Not a word was spoken on either side. The sergeant's
command rang out, and the noise of metalled heels upon the floor was
startlingly loud.

Still with