they were hurrying to Scotland, to Tony's home. Tybar
killed! He was getting in people's way. He went rather uncertainly to
the railings bounding the pavement where he stood, and leaned against
them and stared across into the dim cavern of the station yard. Tybar
dead....[2]

[Footnote 2: At a much later date Nona told Sabre of Tony's death:

"It was in that advance of ours. Just before Vimy Ridge. At Arras.
Marko, he was shot down leading his men. He wouldn't let them take him
away. Re was cheering them on. And then he was hit again. He was
terribly wounded. Oh, terribly. They got him down to the clearing
station. They didn't think he could possibly live. But you know how
wonderful he always was. Even in death that extraordinary spirit of
his.... They got him to Boulogne. I was there and I heard quite by
chance."

"You saw him, Nona?"

She nodded. "Just before he died. He couldn't speak. But he'd been
speaking just before I came. He left a message with the nurse."

She drew a long breath. "Marko, the nurse gave me the message. She
thought it was for me--and it wasn't."

She wiped her eyes. "He was watching us. I know he knew she was telling
me, and his eyes--you know that mocking kind of look they used to have?
Poor Tony! It was there. He died like that.... Marko, you know I'm very
glad he just had his old mocking way while he died. Now it's over I'm
glad. I wouldn't have had him sorry and unhappy just when he was dying.
He was just utterly untouched by anything all his life, not to be judged
as ordinary people are judged, and I know perfectly well he'd have
wished to go out just his mocking, careless self to the last. He was
utterly splendid. All that was between us, that was nothing once the war
came. Always think kindly of him, Marko."

Sabre said, "I do. I've never been able but to admire him." She said,
"Every one did Poor Tony. Brave Tony!"]

XI

On the following morning he crossed to France, there to take up again
that strange identity in whose occupancy his own self was held in
abeyance, waiting his return. Seven months passed before he returned to
that waiting identity and he resumed it then permanently,--done with the
war. The tremendous fighting of 1917--his participation in the war--his
tenancy of the strange personality caught up in the enormous machinery
of it all--ended for him in the great break through of the Hindenburg
Line in November. On top of a recollection of sudden shock, then of