The Colonel nodded.  “Man, I know, I know; but look at ’em”—­he pointed to the pathetic remnant of his battalion lying out behind the crest—­“they’re dropping asleep where they lie—­they’re beat to a finish—­not another kick left in ’em.”

He sat down and buried his face in his hands.  The redoubtable Antrims had come to the end.

Suddenly came a shout from the Senior Captain, “Good Lord, what’s that fellow after?  Who the devil is it?”

They all turned and saw a tiny figure, clad only in underclothes, marching deliberately over the ridge towards the Germans.

“Who is it?” the Colonel repeated.  “Beggin’ your pardon, the Reverend, Sir,” said the Padre’s batman as he strode past the group of officers.  “’E give me the slip, Sir.  Gawd knows wot ’e’s up to now.”  He lifted up his voice and wailed after his master, “’Ere, you come back this minute, Sir.  You’ll get yourself in trouble again.  Do you ’ear me, Sir?” But the Padre apparently did not hear him, for he plodded steadily on his way.  The batman gave a sob of despair and broke into a double.

The Colonel sprang to his feet, “Hey, stop him, somebody!  Those swine’ll shoot him in a second—­child murder!”

Two subalterns ran forward, followed by a trio of N.C.O.’s.  All along the line men lifted their weary heads from the ground and saw the tiny figure on the ridge silhouetted against the red east.

“Oo’s that blinkin’ fool?”

“The Padre.”

“Wot’s ‘e doin’ of?”

“Gawd knows.”

A man rose to his knees, from his knees to his feet, and stumbled forward, mumbling, “’E give me a packet of fags when I was broke.”  “Me too,” growled another, and followed his chum.  “They’ll shoot ’im in a minute,” a voice shouted, suddenly frightened. “’Ere, this ain’t war, this is blasted baby-killin’.”

In another five seconds the whole line was up and jogging forward at a lurching double.  “And a little child shall lead them,” murmured the Colonel happily, as he put his best foot forwards; a miracle had happened, and his dear ruffians would go down in glory.

But as they topped the hill crest came the shrill of a whistle from the opposite ridge, and there was half a battalion of the Rutlands back-casting for the enemy that had broken through their posts.  With wild yells both parties charged downwards into the sunken road.

When the tumult and shouting had died Patrick went in quest of the little Padre.

He discovered him sitting on the wreck of his bivouac of the night; he was clasping some small article to his bosom, and the look in his face was that of a man who had found his heart’s desire.

Patrick sat himself down on a box of bombs, and looked humbly at the Reverend Paul.  It is an awful thing for a man suddenly to find he has been entertaining a hero unawares.

“Oh, Dicky Bird, Dicky Bird, why did you do it?” he inquired softly.