The night passed.  The Squire came in after midnight, and took his place by the bed.

Desmond was then restless and suffering, and the nurse in charge whispered to the Squire that the pulse was growing weaker.  But the boy opened his eyes on his father, and tried to smile.  The Squire sat bowed and bent beside him, and nurses and doctors withdrew from them a little—­out of sight and hearing.

‘Desmond!’ said the Squire in a low voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Is there anything I could do—­to please you?’ It was a humble and a piteous prayer.  Desmond’s eyes travelled over his father’s face.

‘Only—­love me!’ he said, with difficulty.  The Squire grew very white.  Kneeling down he kissed his son—­for the first time since Desmond was a child.

Desmond’s beautiful mouth smiled a little.

‘Thank you,’ he said, so feebly that it could scarcely be heard.  When the light began to come in he moved impatiently, asking for the newspapers.  Elizabeth told him that old Perley had gone to meet them at the morning train at Fallerton, and would be out with them at the earliest possible moment.

But when they came the boy turned almost angrily from them.  ’The Shipping Problem—­Attacks on British Ports—­Raids on the French Front—­Bombardment of German Towns—­Curfew Regulations’—­Pamela’s faltering voice read out the headings.

‘Oh, what rot!’ he said wearily—­’what rot!’

After that his strength ebbed visibly through the morning.

Chicksands, who must return to town in the afternoon, sat with him, Pamela and Elizabeth opposite—­Alice and Margaret not far away.  The two doctors watched their patient, and Martin whispered to Aubrey Mannering, who had come down by a night train, that the struggle for life could not last much longer.

Presently about one o’clock, Aubrey, who had been called out of the room, came back and whispered something to Chicksands, who at once went away.  Elizabeth, looking up, saw agitation and expectancy in the Major’s look.  But he said nothing.

In a few minutes Chicksands reappeared.  He went straight to Desmond, and knelt down by him.

‘Desmond!’ he said in a clear voice, ’the offensive’s begun.  The Chief in my room at the War Office has just been telephoning me.  It began at eight this morning—­on a front of fifty miles.  Can you hear me?’ The boy opened his eyes—­straining them on Arthur.

‘It’s begun!’ he said eagerly—­’begun!  What have they done?’

’The bombardment opened at dawn—­about five—­the German infantry attacked about eight.  It’s been going on the whole morning—­and down the whole front from Arras to the Scarpe.’

‘And we’ve held?—­we’ve held?’

’So far magnificently.  Our outpost troops have been withdrawn to the battle-zone—­that’s all.  The line has held everywhere.  The Germans have lost heavily.’

‘Outpost troops!’ whispered the boy—­’why, that’s nothing!  We always expected—­to lose the first line.  Good old Army!’