oice rang out just in time. The old groom had scrambled
to the bank to follow his master, but four hands grasped him and pulled
him back. With a moan he clung to the bank, following Dick with his
eyes. And his face was the colour of ashes.

With their voices almost rising to a scream, the chafing Americans
watched the Englishman walk towards the enemy lines. Bullets bit the
ground near his feet, but, untouched, he went on, with the metal monster
following behind. Once he fell, and a hush came over the watchers; but
he rose and limped on. His face pale and grim, Van Derwater moved among
his men, urging them to wait; but they cursed and yelled at the delay.

Again Dick fell, and with difficulty stumbled to his feet. For a moment
he swayed as if a heavy gale were blowing against him, and as his face
turned towards his comrades they could see his lips parted in a strange
smile. Raising his arm like one who is invoking vengeance, he staggered
on, and by some miracle reached the very edge of the enemy's position.
There he collapsed, but rising once more, pointed ahead, and lurched
forward on his face.

With a roar the American torrent burst its bounds and swept towards the
enemy. Selwyn leaped in advance of his men, his voice uttering a long,
pulsating cry, like a bloodhound that has found its trail.

He did not see, over towards the centre, that Van Derwater had stopped
half-way and had fallen to his knees, both hands covering his eyes.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE END OF THE ROAD.

I.

One noonday in the November of 1918 a taxi-cab drew up at the
Washington Inn, a hostelry erected in St. James's Square for American
officers. An officer emerged, and walking with the aid of a stout
Malacca cane, followed his kit into the place.

It was Austin Selwyn, who a few days before had come from France, where
he had hovered for a long time in the borderland between life and
death. Although he had been severely wounded, it was the nervous
strain of the previous four years that told most heavily against him.
Week after week he lay, listless and almost unconscious; but gradually
youth had reasserted itself, and the lassitude began to disappear with
the return of strength. The horrors through which he had passed were
softened by the merciful effect of time, and as the reawakened streams
of vitality flowed through his veins, his eyes were kindled once more
with the magic of alert expression.

Having secured a cubicle