"I really hate to leave you, sir, just now," he said. "I mean that," he added with a little nervous laugh.

"Oh, come on, Dunbar," said the O. C. in a voice whose gruffness might signify almost any emotion, but with a touch upon his shoulder that Barry knew meant comradeship. "Say good-bye to the boys here, and get out."

They had just finished the plan for the campaign of the next night, and every man in that little company knew that for him this might be his last "Good-bye" to the chaplain. It only added to the depth of their feeling that they knew that of all this Barry was unconscious. But, whether it was that unconsciously he had gathered something of the real significance of the situation, or whether it was that he himself had reached the limit of emotional control, as he passed from man to man, shaking hands in farewell, his lips refused to utter a single word, but in his eyes were unshed tears that spoke for him.

Major Bayne followed him to the door, and outside:

"Take my horse and Monroe with you, and good-bye, old man. All sorts of good luck. Remember that we all feel to-night that you are really one of us, and that we are better men because we have known you. Goodbye."

Again Barry was conscious of that strange suggestion, almost of impending calamity.

"I hate to go, major," he said. "I believe I'll wait."

"Nonsense," said the major impatiently. "Take your leave when you get your chance, and have a good time. You have earned it."

CHAPTER XVI

THE PASSING OF McCUAIG

At Poperinghe the leave train was waiting in the station, and a little company of officers and men were having their papers examined preparatory to their securing transportation. Some of the officers were from his own brigade and were known to Barry.

"A big push on at the front, I hear," said one of them to a friend.

"Yes, major," said his friend. "They have been having a perfect hell of a time."

"By the way, your men are going in to-morrow, I understand," said the major, turning to Barry.

"I don't think so, major," replied Barry. "We have just come out."

"Oh, well, I had it from fairly good authority that they were going in to-morrow night."

Barry hunted up Monroe, whom he found talking to a signaller of the battalion.

"Did you boys hear anything about the battalion going up to-morrow?"

"Yes, sir," said the signaller promptly. "We had it over the wires. They are going in, all right, to-morrow night."

Monroe kicked the signaller on the ankle.

"Did you hear anything about it, Monroe?" enquired Barry.

"No, sir. I don't believe these rumours at all. They are always flying about."

"But you say you got it over the wires?" said Barry to the signaller.

"Yes, sir. That is, sir, of course, we get a lot of messages. Perhaps I'm mixed up," said the signaller in very evident confusion.

"And you haven't heard anything, Monroe?" said Barry.

"No, sir, not a thing, and I think I would have heard if there had been any truth in it."

Something in the childlike expression of innocence upon Monroe's face wakened Barry's suspicion.

"Look here, Monroe," he said, "don't lie to me. Now, I'm talking to you as your chaplain. Tell me the truth. Have you heard of the battalion going in to-morrow?"

Under Barry's eye Monroe began to squirm.

"Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I did hear a rumour of that kind."

"And you?" said Barry, turning upon the signaller, "tell me the truth."

"Well, sir, it's just as I said. We had it over the wires. The battalion is going in."

"Very well, get my stuff, Monroe," said Barry, quietly. "I'm going back."

"I beg your pardon, sir."

"Do you hear me? Get my stuff; I'm not going out to-night." Barry's tone admitted no further talk, and Monroe, swearing deeply at his friend the signaller and at his own stupidity, and especially at his own "lack of nerve to see his lie through," hunted out Barry's baggage and stood ready for his officer to return.

"Hello, Dunbar," said the major, as he saw Barry about to mount his horse. "What's up? Forgotten something? You'll surely miss your train."

"I'm not going," said Barry briefly, getting himself settled in his saddle.

"Not going!" exclaimed the major. "What do you mean? I thought you were on leave."

"Changed my mind," said Barry cheerfully.

"I say, old man," said the major, "there may be nothing in what I told you about the push. Anyway, you know we cannot postpone our leave until all the fighting is over."

"Oh, that's all right," replied Barry. "There are lots of you combatant chaps in a battalion, but there is only one chaplain."

"Oh, hang it all," cried the major, "take your leave. Well," seeing that Barry paid no heed to his advice, "the best of luck, old man," he said, offering his hand. "I guess you're all right after all."

The exhilaration that had sustained Barry during the evening suddenly fled, leaving him flat in spirit and limp in body. What he wanted most of all was sleep, and morning was not so far away. He rode back to his hut, and, bidding Monroe let him sleep all day, he tumbled into bed and knew nothing until late in the afternoon. Monroe, too, had slept in, and, after rising, had been busy about the hut, so that he had no further information as to the battalion's movements. The chaplain's hut was some distance from Headquarters and from the battalion camp. Hence it came that while Barry was writing hard at his letters throughout the remainder of the afternoon, he was quite unaware of what was taking place. Monroe, however, returned about six o'clock to say that the battalion had been "standing to" all afternoon, but that the general feeling was that there would be no advance until late at night.

Glad of the opportunity to catch up with his correspondence, Barry paid little heed to the passing of time. His last letter was to the V. A. D., in which he poured out the bitterness of his disappointment that he was not even now on his way to Boulogne and to her, and expressing the hope that after this "show" was over, he would be granted leave, upon which happy event he would with all speed proceed to her. She had been speaking of a trip to England. Would it not be a very wise and proper proceeding that she should make her leave to synchronise with his? Now he must be off, and so with love to her, and with the hope that they might see London together--

Just then Monroe came with the startling news that the battalion had "moved up" hours ago.

"Which road?" enquired Barry, springing to his feet.

"Don't know, sir," replied Monroe, who had evidently his own opinion about matters. "But I met a padre," he continued, "who told me that there was a stream of wounded passing through the Brandhoek Clearing Station. He said they were very short-handed there, sir," and Monroe regarded his officer with anxious eyes.

"I hate to take you up there, Monroe," said Barry with a smile.

"Oh, that's all right, sir," said Monroe, hastily, "but I guess we'll have to hurry."