“Now, come along to daily Mass,” he pleaded.  “Just come and see how they work out, these ideas of worshipping like the shepherds and of kneeling beneath the shadow of a sacrifice.  You’ll find the early half-hour before the altar the happiest half-hour of the day.  You’ll find your spiritual recovery there.  It’ll be your healing spring.”

Turning with the Monty suddenness to Doe, he proved by his next words how quickly he had read my friend’s character.

“You boys are born hero-worshippers,” he said.  “And there’s nothing that warm young blood likes better than to do homage to its hero, and mould itself on its hero’s lines.  In the Mass you simply bow the knee to your Hero, and say:  ’I swear fealty.  I’m going to mould myself on you.’”

He had not known Edgar Doe forty-eight hours, but he had his measure.

“All right,” said Doe, “I’ll come.”

“Tell us about the other thing, confession,” I suggested.

“Not now, Rupert.  ‘Ye are babes,’ and I’ve fed you with milk.  Confession’ll come, but it’s strong meat for you yet.”

“I don’t know,” demurred I.

Monty’s face brightened, as the fact of one who sees the dawn of victory.  But Doe, though his whole nature moved him to be a picturesque High Churchman, yet, because he wanted Monty to think well of him, drew up abruptly at the prospect of a detailed confession.

“You’ll never get me to come to confession,” he laughed, “never—­never—­never.”

“My dear Gazelle, don’t be silly,” rejoined Monty.  “I’ll have you within the week.”

“You won’t!”

“I will!  Oh, I admit I’m out to win you two.  I want to prove that the old Church of England has everything you public schoolboys need, and capture you and hold you.  I want all the young blood for her.  I want to prove that you can be the pride of the Church of England.  And I’ll prove it.  I’ll prove it on this ship.”

Whether he proved it, I can’t say.  I am only telling a tale of what happened.  I dare say that, if instead of Monty, the Catholic, some militant Protestant had stepped at this critical moment into our lives, full of enthusiasm for his cause and of tales of the Protestant martyrs, he would have won us to his side, and provided a different means of spiritual recovery.  I don’t know.

For the tale I’m telling is simply this:  that in these moments, when every turn of the ship’s screw brought us nearer Gibraltar, the gate of the Great Sea, and God alone knew what awaited us in the Gallipoli corner of that Mediterranean arena, came Padre Monty, crashing up to us with his Gospel of the saints.  It was the ideal moment for a priest to do his priestly work, and bring our Mother Church to our side.  And Monty failed neither her nor us.

CHAPTER IV

THE VIGIL

Sec.1