the gunner,
who had served this gun to the last and then, alone, had stood at
attention till the lead swept him down, had thirty wounds to his credit
for England's sake. Under the gun there was some shade, for she threw
over it a piece of tarpaulin and some ragged, blood-stained jackets
lying near--jackets of men whose wounds their comrades had tried
hastily to help when the scythe of war cut them down.

There was shade now, but there was not safety, for the ground was
spurting dust where bullets struck, and even bodies of dead men were
dishonoured by the insult of new wounds and mutilations.

Al'mah thought nothing of safety, but only of this life which was
ebbing away beside her. She saw that a surgeon could do nothing, that
the hurt was internal and mortal; but she wished him not to die until
she had spoken with him once again and told him all there was to
tell--all that had happened after he left Brinkwort's Farm yesterday.

She looked at the drawn and blanched face and asked herself if that
look of pain and mortal trouble was the precursor of happiness and
peace. As she bathed the forehead of the wounded man, it suddenly came
to her that here was the only tragedy connected with Stafford's going:
his work was cut short, his usefulness ended, his hand was fallen from
the lever that lifted things.

She looked away from the blanched face to the field of battle, towards
the sky above it. Circling above were the vile aasvogels, the loathsome
birds which followed the track of war, watching, waiting till they
could swoop upon the flesh blistering in the sun. Instinctively she
drew nearer to the body of the dying man, as though to protect it from
the evil flying things. She forced between his lips a little more water.

"God make it easy!" she said.

A bullet struck a wheel beside her, and with a ricochet passed through
the flesh of her forearm. A strange look came into her eyes, suffusing
them. Was her work done also? Was she here to find the solution of all
her own problems--like Stafford--like Stafford? Stooping, she
reverently kissed the bloodless cheek. A kind of exaltation possessed
her. There was no fear at all. She had a feeling that he would need her
on the journey he was about to take, and there was no one else who
could help him now. Who else was there beside herself--and Jigger?

Where was Jigger? What had become of Jigger? He would surely have been
with Stafford if he had not been hurt or killed. It was n