Next day Brigade Orders announced that the movement would be continued at nightfall, by the occupation of the hastily-dug trenches, followed by a night attack upon the hill in front.  The captured position would then be retrenched.

When the tidings went round, fourteen of the more quick-witted spirits of “A” Company hurriedly paraded before the Medical Officer and announced that they were “sick in the stomach.”  Seven more discovered abrasions upon their feet, and proffered their sores for inspection, after the manner of Oriental mendicants.  One skrimshanker, despairing of producing any bodily ailment, rather ingeniously assaulted a comrade-in-arms, and was led away, deeply grateful, to the guard-room.  Wee Peter, who in the course of last night’s operations had stumbled into an old trench half-filled with ice-cold water, and whose temperature to-day, had he known it, was a hundred and two, paraded with his company at the appointed time.  The company, he reflected, would get a bad name if too many men reported sick at once.

Next day he was absent from parade.  He was “for Cambridge” at last.

Before he died, he sent for the officer who had befriended him, and supplemented, or rather corrected, some of the information contained in his attestation paper.

He lived in Dumbarton, not Renfrewshire.  He was just sixteen.  He was not—­this confession cost him a great effort—­a full-blown “holder-on” at all; only an apprentice.  His father was “weel kent” in the town of Dumbarton, being a chief engineer, employed by a great firm of shipbuilders to extend new machinery on trial trips.

Needless to say, he made a great fight.  But though his heart was big enough, his body was too frail.  As they say on the sea, he was over-engined for his beam.

And so, three days later, the simple soul of Twenty-seven fifty-four Carmichael, “A” Company, was transferred, on promotion, to another company—­the great Company of Happy Warriors who walk the Elysian Fields.

III

“Firing parrty, one round blank—­load!”

There is a rattle of bolts, and a dozen barrels are pointed heavenwards.  The company stands rigid, except the buglers, who are beginning to finger their instruments.

“Fire!”

There is a crackling volley, and the pipes break into a brief, sobbing wail.  Wayfarers upon the road below look up curiously.  One or two young females with perambulators come hurrying across the grass, exhorting apathetic babies to sit up and admire the pretty funeral.

Twice more the rifles ring out.  The pipes cease their wailing, and there is an expectant silence.

The drum-major crooks his little finger, and eight bugles come to the “ready.”  Then “Last Post,” the requiem of every soldier of the King, swells out, sweet and true.

The echoes lose themselves among the dripping pines.  The chaplain closes his book, takes off his spectacles, and departs.