"Yes; what is it?"

"That you go back to America, and arouse that great Continent to come and help us in this war for peace. I know your President professes to be a peace man. But think! You who could do so much to kill war, are standing by, supine and neutral, while we are shedding our blood to make war impossible. To me, it is the call of G.o.d to every young man and to every man who has health and strength, to give his life to kill this war devil at the heart of Europe. And I tell you this, until it is killed, your talk about peace will be so much wind and useless sound. America could, if she would, put an end to this war."

"How?" cried the American.

"By, raising an army of millions of men, well accoutred and armed and provisioned, to come over to help us. If America placed all her mighty weight on the side of England at this moment, it would paralyse the German Army. If America said, as we are saying, that this war should never cease until Germany was powerless ever to make war again, you would do more for peace than if all the talkers in America were to go round preaching peace. That is why, Quaker as I am, I am a soldier, and will remain a soldier as long as G.o.d gives me breath, to make peace not a dream, but a reality."

"But what about the Sermon on the Mount, young man?" said the American.

"What did our Lord mean," urged Bob, "when He said, 'I came not to bring peace but a sword?' And what did He mean when He said to His disciples, 'He that hath no sword, let him go and buy one?' Mind you, we do not hate the Germans in all this; we do not violate the command 'Love your enemy.' It would be the greatest blessing ever known to the German people if the Kaiser and all his war-fiends were crushed for ever, for then could peace be made possible."

"Now, Nancarrow," said the doctor, "you have talked enough. You're getting excited as it is, and we want you back at the front."

"I will say this," said the American, holding out his hand to Bob, "you have given me something to think about, and I will tell the Americans what you have said."

CHAPTER XXII

"Nancarrow, it's a nice day; it might be summer. I want you to get out." It was the doctor who spoke. "Yes, I know you feel weak, but one hour in the sunshine will do you more good than all the medicine ever invented."

"I can hardly bear to move my arm yet," said Bob; "and I am as weak as a kitten."

"Yes, I know; but, come, you must get out."

Five minutes later Bob had been taken to a sheltered spot, where he sat rejoicing in the warm rays of the sun. Close by was the great barn-like building, in which many hundreds of wounded men lay, and where scores of brave women were giving their lives to nurse the men who had been fighting for their country.

In the near distance, too, he saw several like himself who were convalescent, and who were drinking in the pure country air and rejoicing in the warm sunlight.

During the last three days he had been able to read, and found that people in the home country had been thinking of those away at the war.

Literally tons of periodicals, novels, and other light literature had been forwarded to them; while on every hand were evidences of the fact that millions at home, although they were unable to fight, were anxious to help those who could.

Although it was a scene of suffering, and although many of the sights in the hospital were terrible beyond words, all was cheerfulness and hope. Laughter was heard on every hand; jests were bandied in every direction; all thoughts of differences in nationality were sunk in the common cause of humanity.

"A week or two more," thought Bob, "and I shall be at it again."

A copy of an English newspaper, several days old, lay by his side. He took it up and began to read listlessly. The paper had been sent from Lancashire and contained letters from soldiers who had gone from that county. One letter struck him forcibly: it was headed "Back to h.e.l.l."

"Dear mother," the soldier wrote, "I am alive and well, but I have had a terrible time. Four days and nights I have been fighting without ever having time to change my clothes. Never once during that time did I take off my shoes. It was simply fight, fight, all the time. Our chaps were just worn out, and so were ordered away to rest for a day or two. That is why I am here and have time to write to you. To-morrow I am going back to h.e.l.l; but I am going willingly, because I know I am wanted there."

The tears started to Bob's eyes as he read. There was a touch of heroism, and more than heroism, in the simple lad's letter: "I am going back to h.e.l.l, and I am going willingly, because I know I am wanted there."

"Yes," thought Bob; "that just hits off the situation."

At that moment a laugh rang out which caused him to start violently and his pulses to quicken; there was not another voice in the world like that; it was a laugh he had heard a hundred times. He remembered it as it sounded above the singing of the waves down by the Cornish sea; he remembered it on the tennis courts at Penwennack, and on the golf links at Leiant. In another second the laugh was lost in a hoa.r.s.e, excited cry. The eyes of the two met, but neither spoke a word.

"I--I--this is a surprise," stammered Bob presently.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

It was not a bit what either of them wanted to say, but it didn't matter; words at that moment meant very little.

"I never heard you were here," he went on, after a few seconds. "I've been in the hospital such a long time, too, but no one ever told me."

He tried to speak naturally, but the girl heard the tremor in his voice. "It is because he is so weak," she thought. "How pale he looks!"

"Were you wounded badly?" she asked.

"I got out of it jolly easily, I suppose," he replied; "and I was lucky too--all the bones were set before I recovered consciousness."

"He doesn't tell me he is glad to see me," she reflected. "Of course, he hates me now. How can it be otherwise? When we last met, I was just cruel to him, and I hurt him all I was able."

"I am so glad you are better," she said aloud.

"It's awfully good of you. Won't you sit down?"

They might have been mere acquaintances from the way they spoke, but each felt that the moment was tragic.

"The doctor tells me that in a week, or a fortnight at the outside, I shall be ready to go back," Bob continued. "There's nothing the matter with me now, except weakness."

He knew that all this was not what he wanted to say, or what he ought to say, but somehow the right words would not come. He felt awkward and constrained in her presence. "If she's engaged to Trevanion," he reflected, "it must be painful for her to see me. I wonder if she knows nothing about Trevanion. I wonder if--if she knows what I did."

Nancy did not sit down as he had asked her, but stood awkwardly; she was picking a sc.r.a.p of lint to pieces, nervously, and with twitching fingers.

"Bob," she said presently, "I want you to forgive me. I insulted you down in Cornwall--you remember that night at the Public Hall. You see, I didn't know that you intended to enlist."

"I didn't," replied Bob; "nothing was further from my mind than enlisting at that moment."

Everything seemed unreal between them. Neither of them was saying what was in their hearts; they seemed to be speaking only for the purpose of making conversation.

"Have you seen Captain Trevanion?" he asked, after an awkward silence.

"I heard--that is, I was given to understand, he was wounded; not dangerously, you know, but still, wounded. The doctor a.s.sured me he would get better."

He saw a quick flush rise to the girl's pale face, as he spoke; he saw her lips tremble too, but she did not answer him. His heart became as heavy as lead: "Then it is true," he reflected. "Mother was right; they are engaged. Still, I must bear up as best I can. I will not give her pain by telling her what it means to me."

"Oh, Bob, will you forgive me?" she burst out suddenly.

"I--of course, there's nothing to forgive," he answered. "What have I to forgive?"

"I called you a coward," she cried; "I insulted you, and all the time you were braver than I dreamed of. Why, you actually saved him, and in doing so you risked your life in the most horrible way. It was wonderful of you--just wonderful; and I--I---- Oh, I'm so ashamed, Bob!"

"I see what she means," thought Bob; "she's trying to tell me how thankful she is to me for having saved her lover for her."

"I hope you are not worrying about that," he said, and by this time he was able to speak calmly. "I was awfully lucky, and, after all, it was not so difficult; I came back quite safe--not a shot touched me."

"He simply won't see what I mean," was the thought that burned its way into her brain, "or else he hates me. Yes, that is it; he must hate me. How could it be otherwise, when I insulted him in the Public Hall, when I made him the laughing-stock of the whole town?"

"It's awfully fine of you," went on Bob, "to come out here like this.