It was after Jean had gone to bed, however, that they had their talk, and before that Derry and Jean had walked in the moonlight and had listened to the chimes.

There had, perhaps, never been such a moon.  It hung in a sky that shimmered from horizon to horizon.  Against this shimmering background the college buildings were etched in black—­there was a glint of gold as the light caught the icicles and made candles of them.

In the months to come that same moon was to sail over the cantonment where Derry slept heavily after hard days.  It was to sail over the trenches of France, where, perhaps, he slept not at all, or slept uneasily in the midst of mud and vermin.  But always when he looked up at it, he was to see the Cross on the top of the College, and to hear the chimes.

They talked that night of the things that were deep in their hearts.  She wanted him to go—­yes, she wanted him to go, but she was afraid.

“If something should happen to you, Derry.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” he said, in his grave, young voice, “why we are so—­afraid.  I think we have the wrong focus.  We want life, even if it brings unhappiness, even if it brings suffering, even if it brings disgrace.  Anything seems better than to—­die—­”

“But to have things stop, Derry.”  She shuddered.  “When there’s so much ahead.”

“Perhaps they don’t stop, dear.”

“If I could only believe that—­”

“Why not?  Do you remember ‘Sherwood,’ where Blondin rides through the forest singing: 

  ’"Death, what is death?” he cried,
   “I must ride on—­“’”

His face was lifted to the golden sky.  She was never to forget the look upon it.  And with a great ache and throb of passionate renunciation, she told herself that it was for this that the men of her generation had been born, that they might fight against the powers of darkness for the things of the spirit.

She lay awake a long time that night, thinking it out.  Of how she had laughed at other women, scolded, said awful things to them of how their cowardice was holding the world back.  She had thought she understood, but she had not understood.  It was giving your own—­your own, which was the test. Oh, let those who had none of their own to give keep silent.

With her breath almost stopping she thought of those glorious young souls riding on and on through infinite space, the banner of victory floating above them.  No matter what might come to the world of defeat or of disaster, these souls would never know it, they had given themselves in the cause of humanity—­for them there would always be the sound of silver trumpets, the clash of cymbals, the song of triumph!

Downstairs, Dr. McKenzie was listening with a frowning face to what Derry had to tell him.

“Do you mean to say that Hilda was giving him—­wine?”

“Yes.  Bronson told me.  But he didn’t want you to depend upon his unsupported testimony.  So we fixed up a scheme, and I stayed outside until he flashed a light for me; and then I went in and caught her.”