He broke off to laugh at the reminiscence; and Montague Herne gravely set down his glass, and turned his chair with its back to the sunlight.

“Do you know you’ve been here eighteen months?” he said.

Duncannon nodded.

“I feel as if I’d been born here.  Why?”

“Most fellows,” proceeded Herne, ignoring the question, “would have been clamouring for leave long ago.  Why, you have scarcely heard your own language all this time.”

“I have though,” said Duncannon quickly.  “That’s another thing I’ve taught ’em.  They picked it up wonderfully quickly.  There isn’t one of ’em who doesn’t know a few sentences now.”

“You seem to have found your vocation in teaching these heathen to sit up and beg,” observed Herne, with a dry smile.

Duncannon turned dusky red under his tan.

“Perhaps I have,” he said, with a certain, doggedness.

Herne, with his back to the light, was watching him.

“Well,” he said finally, “we’ve served our turn.  The battalion is going Home!”

Duncannon gave a great start.

“Already?”

“After two years’ service,” the other reminded him grimly.

Duncannon fell silent, considering, the matter with bent brows.

“Who succeeds us?” he asked at length.

Herne shrugged his shoulders.

“You don’t know?” There was sudden, sharp anxiety in Duncannon’s voice.  He got off the table with a jerk.  “You must know,” he said.

Herne sat motionless, but he no longer looked the other in the face.

“You’ve taught ’em to fight,” he said slowly.  “They are men enough to look after themselves now.”

“What?” Duncannon flung the word with violence.  He took a single stride forward, standing over Herne in an attitude that was almost menacing.  His hands were clenched.  “What?” he said again.

Herne leaned back, and felt for his cigarette-case.

“Take it easy, old chap!” he said.  “It was bound to come, you know.  It was never meant to be more than a temporary occupation among these friendlies.  They have been useful to us, I admit.  But we can’t fight their battles for them for ever.  It’s time for them to stand on their own legs.  Have a smoke!”

Duncannon ignored the invitation.  He turned pale to the lips.  For a space of seconds he said nothing whatever.  Then at length, slowly, in a voice that was curiously even, “Yes, I’ve taught ’em to fight,” he said.  “And now I’m to leave ’em to be massacred, am I?”

Herne shrugged his shoulders again, not because he was actually indifferent, but because, under the circumstances, it was the easiest answer to make.

Duncannon went on in the same dead-level tone: