which the energy
of the boy's youth might hold out for a few days--not more. That
was why he had been allowed to bring his son home--to die. If
there had been a ray, a possibility of hope, every resource of
science would have been brought to bear on saving him, there in
that casualty clearing-station, itself a large hospital, where the
Squire had found him.

All the scenes, incidents, persons of the preceding days were
flowing in one continuous medley through the Squire's mind--the
great spectacle of the back of the Army, with all its endless
movement, its crowded roads and marching men, the hovering
aeroplanes, the _camouflaged_ guns, the long trains of artillery
waggons and motor-lorries, strange faces of Kaffir boys and Chinese,
grey lines of German prisoners. And then, the hospital. Nothing very
much doing, so he was told. Yet hour after hour the wounded came in,
men shattered by bomb and shell and rifle-bullet, in the daily raids
that went on throughout the line. And scarcely a moan, scarcely a
word of complaint!--men giving up their turn with the surgeon to a
comrade--'Never mind me, sir--he's worse nor me!'--or the elder
cheering the younger--'Stick it, young'un--this'll get you to
Blighty right enough!'--or, in the midst of mortal pain, signing a
field postcard for the people at home, or giving a message to a
_padre_ for mother or wife. Like some monstrous hand, the grip of
the war had finally closed upon the Squire's volatile, recalcitrant
soul. It was now crushing the moral and intellectual energy in
himself, as it had crushed the physical life of his son. For it was
as though he were crouching on some bare space, naked and alone,
like a wounded man left behind in a shell-hole by his comrades'
advance. He was aware, indeed, of a mysterious current of spiritual
force--patriotism, or religion, or both in one--which seemed to be
the support of other men. He had seen incredible, superhuman proofs
of it in those few hospital days. But it was of no use to him.

There was only one dim glimmer in his mind--towards which at
intervals he seemed to be reaching out. A woman's face--a woman's
voice--in which there seemed to be some offer of help or comfort. He
had seen her--she was somewhere in the house. But there seemed to be
insuperable barriers--closed doors, impassable spaces--between
himself and her. It was a nightmare, partly the result of fatigue
and want of sleep.

When he had first seen his son, Desmond was