Away in another part of the hospital a man sat smoking a cigarette; he had, during the early part of the day been taking exercise, and, although he felt no pain, he was tired after his exertions.

"In another week I shall be at it again," he reflected. "Heavens, life is a curious whirligig of a business. Fancy, after all I said to him, his coming to the front in this way! A kind of strange irony of fate that he, of all men, should pull me out of the very jaws of death. Of course, he didn't know who I was, or he wouldn't have done it. It was a plucky thing, anyhow; and--and--by Jove, there she is!"

He rose quickly from his chair as he spoke, and went out into the autumn sunshine, where a woman, wearing a nurse's uniform, was talking with a doctor.

"Nancy," said the man, when presently she came towards him, "I haven't seen you for days; this is a lucky chance."

"I haven't much time for anything," she replied; "fifty poor fellows were brought here from the front this morning, and ever since every one of us has been hard at it. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I shall soon be well. In another week, the doctor tells me, I shall be at the front again. But for the thought of leaving you, I shall be jolly glad. We little thought, Nancy, when we parted in Cornwall, and when I told you you might have to nurse me, that it would actually take place."

"No," replied the girl; "but, somehow, the world seems altogether different now; I feel as though ten years had been added to my life.

When the war broke out, I was almost happy about it; it seemed so splendid for those I knew to be able to go to the front and fight for their country; war was something glorious. I shall never think about it in that way again. Poor Lieutenant Russell died this morning. Oh, yes, I know it was wonderful the way he bore up to the end; he thought he was back on the battlefield, and he kept on crying, 'We're gaining ground--we're gaining ground! That's it, lad, at 'em; we'll save England from those beastly Germans.' And then he died; yes, it was a glorious death. But all war is horrible, horrible! Do you know, Captain Trevanion, I never cease wondering at the way you were rescued."

"Don't speak to me like that. Surely I am not 'Captain Trevanion' to you; I'm 'Hector.' You've never called me by my name yet; why won't you? I say, Nancy, can't you promise me anything definite before I go back?"

The girl almost shuddered: "Don't talk about that now," she said.

"I--I--it's too horrible. You never described your escape to me. Tell me all about it, will you?"

"I can't," replied Trevanion; "you see, I was unconscious."

"I got an English paper to-day," went on the girl; "I only read it a few minutes ago."

"Read what?" There was an anxious tone in the Captain's voice.

"Here it is," she said. "Haven't you seen it?"

"No. What is it?"

"Oh, it says all sorts of fine things about you. Of course, you'll soon be promoted as a consequence. But don't you see, the paper says that a Lieutenant Nancarrow, learning of your danger, went right out into the open, braving the German fire in order to get at you. It is spoken of as one of the bravest deeds of the war. Didn't you know about it? You tell me nothing."

"You see, I was unconscious," repeated Trevanion; "all I know is that some fellow, unknown to me, did a splendid deed and brought me back to the English lines."

"Then you never saw your rescuer?"

"No," replied the Captain quietly; "I was packed off here. Of course, it was fine on the part of that fellow, whoever he was. Some day I hope I shall have the chance of thanking him."

The girl looked away across the peaceful countryside, and, as she did so, a tremulous sigh escaped her.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Trevanion.

"Oh--nothing--that is, it doesn't matter. It seems strange, though, doesn't it, that the man who saved you from death should be called Nancarrow; it is a Cornish name too."

"And--and you are thinking of that fellow?" said Captain Trevanion, almost angrily.

"Have you heard anything about Bob?--that is, do you know where--what he did when he left St. Ia?"

Trevanion did not look at Nancy's face; he couldn't. He knew what he ought to do, he, who always prided himself upon being a sportsman--he ought to tell her that the man who had saved him was the one of whom she was thinking; but he could not--he was afraid. He, who had faced death calmly day by day; he, who had been noted for his bravery on the field, and who had been mentioned in despatches, was now a coward.

In a way he wondered at himself, and he realised that there was more than one kind of courage. He, himself, had called Bob Nancarrow a coward, because he refused to enlist. Now he realised that there was more courage in Bob Nancarrow's cowardice than in his own bravery. Oh, it was all an awful muddle! He ought to tell Nancy what Lieutenant Proctor had related to him just before he was taken away to the hospital; but he couldn't. If he did, he would forfeit his own chance, and he might--yes, he was sure--he would lose Nancy altogether.

"Of course, it couldn't be he," and Nancy seemed to be speaking to herself; "you see, according to the paper, you were rescued by a Lieutenant Nancarrow who belonged to a London regiment. Even if Bob had joined the Army, he couldn't have been promoted so quickly," and the girl sighed again.

"Nancy," said the Captain, "I--I shouldn't be surprised if it were Bob Nancarrow," and the heroism in those words was greater than that of many deeds for which he had been praised. In that moment Trevanion had won a greater battle than he realised. It had caused him little effort to lead his men against the charges of the German infantry, but he felt as though his heart were being pulled out as he uttered the words I have recorded.

The girl's face became pale: "What do you mean?" she asked. "Have you heard anything?"

Still Trevanion could not speak freely; even yet he wondered if there were not some way whereby doubt could be kept in the girl's mind.

"You see," he said presently, "Nancarrow was in the O.T.C. at Clifton, and, I suppose, did very well there. Captain Pringle spoke to me more than once about him, and--and I heard after he left Cornwall that he joined a London regiment; of course, it was only hearsay, and I paid but very little attention to it--in fact, I didn't believe it! Still, it might be he."

The girl's lips became tremulous: "Do you mean that, after all, Bob joined?"

"He might have," admitted Trevanion, and his voice was almost husky as he spoke, and his eyes became hard.

"No, no," she cried, "It couldn't have been he. If he had, he would have told me--I am sure he would."

"Would he?" asked Trevanion.

She stood silent for a few seconds without speaking. She remembered the circ.u.mstances under which she had parted from Bob; she called to mind the time when she had given him a white feather in the Public Hall at St. Ia, and her face crimsoned with shame at the thought of it. No one could offer a more deadly insult than she had offered Bob. She had branded him as a coward, regardless of who might be looking on. No, no, even if he had joined, he would not have told her; his heart would be too bitter against her. Why--why, he must hate her now!

"I say, Nancy," and Trevanion's voice was hoa.r.s.e with pain, "you don't mean to tell me that you care anything about him still? You know what you said; you told me you despised him, and--and, why, you almost told me to hope! Don't you remember?"

The girl's face was set and stern; she did not hear Trevanion's last words; she was wondering with a great wonder.

"Do you know anything besides what you have told me?" she asked.

"I don't understand," he stammered.

"You said it might be he, as though there were a doubt about it; don't you know for certain? You've seen Captain Pringle; did you see him after you recovered consciousness, that is, after you were rescued?"

"Yes, but of course I scarcely knew what was said to me."

"And did Captain Pringle tell you it was--was--the Nancarrow we knew?"

"He said it was Nancarrow from Clifton, and--and that he had done the bravest thing since the war began; but everything was vague to me.

I--I, of course, didn't believe it was Nancarrow; you know what he said? But, I say, Nancy, all this makes no difference to us, does it?

You didn't raise my hopes only to dash them to the ground! I shall be off to the front again in a few days, and--oh, if you could give me just a word--just a word, Nancy, everything would be different! Hang it all, even if it is he, and, of course, if it is, I shall not be slow in acknowledging it, I haven't a bad record myself, and I shall go back as major, you know."

But the girl did not answer. Slowly she walked across the yard outside the improvised hospital, without even bidding him "good-day."

"I'm glad I told her, anyhow," reflected Trevanion; "it was beastly hard--one of the hardest things I ever did. Good G.o.d, it seems the very irony of fate that he should be the man to save me! I wonder if he knew that it was I? Perhaps though he knows nothing of what pa.s.sed between us. I wonder where he is now. Anyhow, he shall never have her; there's no other woman in the world for me, and--oh, yes, I'm all right."

Meanwhile, Bob still lay in bed, weak as a child, but still on the highway to recovery. He had no fever, and his wounds were beginning to heal.

Hundreds of men lay around him in the huge building which had been commandeered as a hospital; French and English soldiers were carefully nursed without a thought as to their nationality. It seemed as though all the old enmity between France and England had gone for ever, and that this terrible war made the two nations as one.