“D’you remember telling us one night on the Rangoon about some fellows who—­who—­gave you their wills the day before an attack?”

Monty turned his head, and started to frown through the dug-out door at the still AEgean Sea.

“Yes,” he said.

“Well, Rupert and I thought that we’d—­that p’raps you’d look after these envelopes, in case—­”

“Oh, damn!” said Monty.  I had never heard him swear before, but I knew that in the word his big heart spoke.  Doe still held our envelopes towards his averted face, and at last he took them silently.

“Thanks, awfully,” said Doe.

“Thanks,” said I.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, shut up!” Monty grumbled, and started whistling unconsciously.  Immediately in my mind the words “Dismiss me not thy service, Lord” framed themselves to the tune, and conjured up a vision of the smoking room of the Rangoon and its decks by starlight.  Abruptly Monty broke off, and said, still frowning at the sea: 

“Since those days you’ve been fairly loyal sons of the Church.  Aren’t you going to use her before to-morrow?  To-night’s a more literal Vigil than that voyage.  Can’t I—­aren’t you going to use me?”

It was the old Monty of the Rangoon speaking.

“We’d thought about it,” answered Doe, reddening.

“I so want,” murmured Monty, “to be of use to all the fellows who are going over the top to-morrow.  But they don’t understand.  They don’t think of me as a priest with something to do for them that nobody else can do.  They think I’ve done my job when I’ve had a hymn-singing service, and preached to them....  And all the time I want to absolve them.  I want to send them into the fight—­white.”

No word came from us to break a long pause.  We had become again those listening people of Rangoon nights.

“But you understand,” he recommenced.  “And, if you’ll come to your Confession, I’ll at least have done something for somebody before this scrap.  Rupert, you can thank Heaven you don’t feel as I do—­that you’ve nothing positive to do to-morrow—­that you’re not pulling your weight.  I shall just skulk about, like a dog worrying the heels of an attack.”

“Rot!” said Doe.  “You’ve done wonders for the men.”

“No, I haven’t, except for those who come to their Mass and Confession.  I’ve held no services a layman couldn’t hold, and done nothing for the sick a hospital orderly couldn’t do.  And I want to be their priest.”

“Well, we’ll both come to-night.”

Monty ceased frowning at the sea, and smilingly turned towards us.

“You may think,” he said, “that I’ve been of some help to you; but you can never know of what help you two have been to me.”

“Oh, rot!” said Doe, tossing a pencil into the air.

Sec.5