e few yards of ground
that separated him from the first hole.

It was awful. His brain conceived the thought: "For God's sake let me
die in peace." But his lips were all twisted, and refused to move at the
bidding of his brain. He could only groan.

With wonderful gentleness the man placed his Officer's broken head over
the hole, and with the help of another man lowered him into it.

His next thought was: "Well, they can only hit my feet, now!" There had
not been room in the hole for all of him, so his feet had been left
protruding out of it. The thought fanned some smouldering ember of
humour in him. A moment later he discovered with a thrill--

"I'm going to live, I'm going to live. I _will_ live!"

The discovery, and the resolution which followed, by no means excited
him. He arrived quite quietly at the conclusion. And set his mind to
await the development of the next event.

The man who had dragged him in now tied the "first field dressing" over
his head, and fastened the strings beneath his chin. Interminable ages
passed slowly by, and yet the Doctor did not come. He regarded the
arrival of the Doctor, like the coming of the Last Day, as the end of
all difficulties, and the solution of many mysteries.

Needless to say he was disappointed. The Doctor could naturally do
little or nothing for him. With the aid of a match or two he "had a
look," replaced the dressing by some bandages, and moved him about a
little to ease his position. To carry him away that night, said the
Doctor, was absolutely impossible. And with that he went away.

The Senior Subaltern, who had come up with him, stayed a little longer,
and earned his eternal gratitude. He made further efforts to straighten
him out, assured him that the effects of the shock would wear off by
morning, and that he would once more be able to move. He collected a few
extra blankets and coats and spread them over him, for he was growing
terribly cold. Then with cheery words on his lips he left him.

Left alone in the silence of the night, the Subaltern felt the horror of
the situation take hold of him. He was alone with his pain and his
paralysis. There was no hope of alleviation until morning. What time was
it then? he asked himself. Seven, at the latest. That meant eight long
hours of agony, before anything _happened_! That is what the wounded
love and long for--something to happen--something to distract the
attention from the slow, insistent pain--something t