‘Accidents will happen.’  Sergeant Wilkes, puffing at his pipe, fell back philosophically on his old catchword.  ’It takes you hard, because you’re young; and it takes you harder because you had fed yourself up on dreams o’ glory, and such-like.’

‘Well?’

’Well, and you have to get over it, that’s all.  A man can’t properly call himself a soldier till he’s learnt to get over it.’

‘If that’s all, the battalion is qualifyin’ fast!’ Corporal Sam retorted bitterly, and sat up, blinking in the strong sunlight.  Then, as Sergeant Wilkes made no reply, or perhaps because he guessed something in Sergeant Wilkes’s averted face, a sudden compunction seized him.  ‘You feel it too?’

‘I got to, after all my trouble,’ answered Sergeant Wilkes brusquely.

’I’m sorry.  Look here—­I wish you’d turn your face about—­it’s worse for you and yet you get over it, as you say.  How the devil do you manage?’

Still for a while Sergeant Wilkes leaned back without making reply.  But of a sudden he, too, sat upright, drew down the peak of his shako to shade his eyes, and drawing his pipe from his mouth, jerked the stem of it to indicate a figure slowly crossing a rise of the sandhills between them and the estuary.

‘You see that man?’

’To be sure I do.  An officer, and in the R.A.—­curse them!—­though I can’t call to mind the cut of his jib.’

‘You wouldn’t.  His name’s Ramsay, and he’s just out of arrest.’

‘What has he done?’

’A many things, first and last.  At Fuentes d’Onoro the whole French cavalry cut him off—­him and his battery—­and he charged back clean through them; ay, lad, through ’em like a swathe, with his horses belly-down and the guns behind ’em bounding like skipjacks; not a gun taken, and scarce a gunner hurt.  That’s the sort of man.’

‘Why has he been under arrest?’

’Because the Marquis gave him an order and forgot it.  And because coming up later, expecting to find him where he wasn’t and had no right to be, the Marquis lost his temper.  And likewise, because, when a great man loses his temper, right or wrong don’t matter much.  So there goes Captain Ramsay broken; a gentleman and a born fighter; and a captain he’ll die.  That’s how the mills grind in this here all-conquering army.  And the likes of us sit here and complain.’

‘If a man did that wrong to me—­’ Corporal Sam jumped to his feet and stared after the slight figure moving alone across the sandhills.

Had his curiosity led him but a few paces farther, he had seen a strange sight indeed.

Captain Norman Ramsay, wandering alone and with a burning heart, halted suddenly on the edge of a sand-pit.  Below him four men stood, gathered in a knot—­two of them artillery officers, the others officers of the line.  His first impulse was to turn and escape, for he shunned all companionship just now.  But a second glance told him what was happening; and, prompt on the understanding, he plunged straight down the sandy bank, walked up to a young artillery officer and took the pistol out of his hand.  That was all, and it all happened in less than three minutes.  The would-be duellist—­and challenges had been common since the late assault—­knew the man and his story.  For that matter, every one in the army knew his story.