d waited the words of the young surgeon kept
ringing in her ears, a monotonous discord, "Ninety-nine Adelphi
Terrace--first floor!" Behind it all was the music of the song she had
sung at Rudyard Byng's house the evening of the day Adrian Fellowes had
died--"More was lost at Mohacksfield."

The stupefaction that comes with tragedy crept over her. As the victim
of an earthquake sits down amid vast ruins, where the dead lie
unnumbered, speechless, and heedless, so she sat and watched the face
of the man beside her, and was not conscious that the fire of the
armies was slackening, that bullets no longer spattered the veld or
struck the gun where she sat; that the battle had been carried over the
hills.

In time help would come, so she must wait. At least she had kept
Stafford alive. So far her journey through Hades had been justified. He
would have died had it not been for the water and brandy she had forced
between his lips, for the shade in which he lay beneath the gun. In the
end they would come and gather the dead and wounded. When the battle
was over they would come, or, maybe, before it was over.

But through how many hours had there been the sickening monotony of
artillery and rifle-fire, the bruit of angry metal, in which the roar
of angrier men was no more than a discord in the guttural harmony. Her
senses became almost deadened under the strain. Her cheeks grew
thinner, her eyes took on a fixed look. She seemed like one in a dream.
She was only conscious in an isolated kind of way. Louder than all the
noises of the clanging day was the beating of her heart. Her very body
seemed to throb, the pulses in her temples were like hammers hurting
her brain.

At last she was roused by the sound of horses' hoofs.

So the service-corps were coming at last to take up the wounded and
bury the dead. There were so many dead, so few wounded!

The galloping came nearer and nearer. It was now as loud as thunder
almost. It stopped short. She gave a sigh of relief. Her vigil was
ended. Stafford was still alive. There was yet a chance for him to know
that friends were with him at the last, and also what had happened at
Brinkwort's Farm after he had left yesterday.

She leaned out to see her rescuers. A cry broke from her. Here was one
man frantically hitching a pair of artillery-horses to the gun and
swearing fiercely in the Taal as he did so.

The last time she had seen that khaki hat, long, threadbare frock-coat,
huge Hes