The chestnut, anxious for a gallop through the scrub, and excited by the noise of Monty cantering behind, pulled hard.  My heart was in sympathy with her, and I let her open into a stretch-gallop.  For I was absurdly thinking that, if once I allowed Monty to draw abreast of me, I should yield to him a share of my position as chief mourner.  I wanted to be lonely in my grief.

At a point in front of me on the beaten road shells were dropping with regularity.  Savagely grieving, I let the mare race the shells to the danger zone.  What cared I if shell and mare and rider converged together upon their destruction?

I rode through a rush of confused impressions.  At one moment I was passing Pink Farm Cemetery, which had two of its crosses nearly broken by a shell-splinter.  I was wondering if they would bury him there, alongside of White, under the solitary tree.  At another, I was galloping through the lines of the Lowland Division, where a band of pipers was playing “Annie Laurie,” and an officer cried out to me:  “Stop that galloping, you young fool.”  In answer I put heels to the mare’s flanks and urged her on.  And all the while the “White City” was growing nearer and larger, and my heart beginning to beat with anticipation and fear.  I shouldn’t know what to do or to say.  Never shy of Doe living, I was shy of Doe dying.

Having pulled the excited mare into control and dismounted, I looked round, sneakily sideways, for Monty.  I wanted his company now, for I feared what was coming.  Too proud to appear to wait for him, I shammed difficulty with the animal’s head-rope, and delayed long over the task of tethering her securely.  And the time, during which Monty arrived and dismounted, I killed by unloosening girth and surcingle.

“Come along, Rupert, old chap.”

Monty led the way to Doe’s tent.  And the chief mourner followed humbly behind.  As we dipped our heads to pass under the porch, we went out of the glare of the open air into the subdued and gentle light of the tent.  At once a coolness like that of evening displaced the warmth of the afternoon.  And a strange quiet fell about our ears.  It seemed to me that the eight cots were empty.

The orderly on duty greeted Monty with a soft whisper:  “He’s quite conscious, sir, but won’t last long.”

Following the glance of the orderly, I saw Doe’s wide eyes fixed upon me.

“Hallo, Rupert.”

I hurried to his bedside, feeling, even in that moment, a triumphant joy that his affectionate welcome had been for me and not for Monty.

“Hallo, Doe.”

He looked very beautiful, lying there.  His complexion, always as flawless as a little child’s, had assumed a new waxen loveliness, no touch of colour varying its pale and delicate brown.  And his eyes were brilliant.

“Well—­we did in the old gun, Rupert, that killed—­Jimmy Doon—­and Major Hardy....  The Rangoon proved too strong for it, after all!”