The hurried breathing and sunken cheeks of the wounded man showed that the end was not far. As Barry knelt beside him, he opened his eyes.

There was a look of distress upon his face, which Barry understood. God was near. And God was terrible. He wanted his priest.

"Barry," he whispered, "I've not--been a good man. I haven't been--mean to anybody,--but I used--to swear--and fight, and--"

"Mac, listen to me. We're all the same," said Barry, in a quiet, clear voice. "Suppose I'd injured you."

"You wouldn't--Barry."

"But suppose I did some real mean thing to you, and then came and said I was sorry, would you forgive me?"

"Would I--I'd never think--of anything--you did--to me, Barry."

"Mac, that's the way your Father in Heaven feels to you. We have all done wrong, but He says, 'I will blot out all your sins.' You needn't fear to trust Him, Mac."

"I guess--that's so, Barry--I guess that's--all right."

"Yes, it's all right. Now I'll say a prayer. Look, Mac!"

He held up the little wooden cross before his eyes. A smile of joy and surprise transfigured the dying face.

"I see it!--I see--it!" he whispered, and made a movement with his lips.

Barry laid the cross upon them, and with that symbol of the Divine love and of the Divine sacrifice pressed to the dying lips, he prayed in words such as a child might use.

For some time after the prayer McCuaig lay with his eyes shut, then with a sudden accession of strength, he opened them and looking up into Barry's eyes, said:

"Barry, I'm all right now... . You helped me again."

The long thin hands, once of such iron strength, began to wander weakly over the blanket, until touching Barry's they closed upon it, and held it fast.

"I--won't--forget--you--ever--" he whispered. The nerveless fingers with difficulty lifted Barry's hand to the cold lips. "Good--bye--Bar--ry--"

he said.

"Good-bye, dear old comrade. Good-bye, dear old friend," said Barry in a clear quiet voice, gazing through his falling tears straight into the dying eyes.

"Good--night--" The whisper faded into silence. A quiet smile lay on the white face. The eyes closed, there was a little tired sigh, and the brave tender spirit passed on to join that noble company of immortals who abide in the Presence of the Eternal God of Truth and Love, and "go no more out forever," because they are akin to Him.

In the sorely tortured graveyard, beside the little shell-wrecked Zillebeck church, in a hole made by an enemy shell, they laid McCuaig--a fitting resting place for one who had lived his days in the free wild spaces of the Canadian west, a fitting tomb for as gallant a soldier as Canada ever sent forth to war to make the world free.

That night the battalion was relieved. Worn, spent, but with spirit unbroken, they crawled out from under that matted mass of tangled trunks, sending out their wounded before them, and leaving their buried dead behind them, to hold with other Canadian dead the line which from St. Julien, by Hooge, Sanctuary Wood, and Maple Copse, and Mount Sorel, and Hill 60, and on to St. Eloi, guards the way to Ypres and to the sea.

To Canada every foot of her great domain, from sea to sea, is dear, but while time shall last Canada will hold dear as her own that bloodsoaked sacred soil which her dead battalions hold for Honour, Faith and Freedom.

CHAPTER XVII

LONDON LEAVE AND PHYLLIS

The leave train pulled into the Boulogne station exactly twenty-six hours late. As Barry stepped off the train he was met by the R. T. O., an old Imperial officer with a brisk and important military manner.

"You are the O. C. train, sir?" he inquired.

"I am, sir," replied Barry, saluting.

"You have had a hard time, I understand," said the R. T. O., drawing him off to one side and speaking in a low tone.

"Yes sir, we HAVE had a hard time," replied Barry, "at least the men have. This is my report, sir."

The R. T. O. took the document, opened it, glanced hurriedly through it.

"Ah," he said, "ninety-seven casualties, thirteen fatal. Very bad. Six burned. This is truly terrible."

"There were only two soldiers burned, sir," replied Barry, "but it IS terrible, especially when you think that the men were going on leave and were supposed to have got quit of the danger zone."

"Very, very terrible," said the officer. "You ran off the track, I understand."

"No, sir, it was a collision. There must have been gross carelessness, sir," said Barry. "I trust there will be an investigation. I have taken the liberty to suggest that, sir, in my report."

Barry's voice was stern.

"You need have no apprehension on that score, sir," said the R. T. O., with his eyes still upon the report. "This is very clear and concise.

I see you make no mention of your own services in connection with the affair, but others have. I have had a most flattering telegram from the officer commanding the R. A. M. C., as also from the Divisional Commander, mentioning your initiative and resourcefulness. I assure you this will not be forgotten. I understand you are a padre?"

"Yes, sir," replied Barry, who was getting rather weary of the conversation.

"All I have to say, then, sir, is that the Canadian army must be rich in combatant officers for, if you will pardon me, it strikes me that there is a damned good combatant officer lost in you."

"If I were a better padre," replied Barry, "I would be content."

"I fancy you have little ground for complaint on that score," said the R. T. O., for the first time smiling at him.

"May I ask, sir," replied Barry, "if my responsibility ends here?"

"Yes, unless you want to take charge of the boat."

"I'd rather not, sir, if you please. How long before she sails?"

"About three hours. Have you anything to do?"

"I should like to visit the R. A. M. C. hospital. I should also like to phone the American hospital at Etaples."

"Very well, you can easily do both. I will run you up in my car, if you care to wait a few moments until I put through some little matters here.

Then if you will be good enough to join me at breakfast, I can drive you up afterwards to the hospital. This is my car. I think you had better step in and sit down; you look rather used up."

"Will you allow me to speak to some of the men first, sir?"

"Oh, certainly. Do anything you like. There are your men."