In his sleep among the guns and the piteous, mutilated dead, he had gone a pilgrimage to a Distant Place and had been told the secret of the world.  Yet when he first waked, it was not in his mind—­only that confusion out of which he had passed to nothingness with the vision of the distracted springboks.  Suddenly a torturing thirst came, and it waked him fully to the reality of it all.  He was lying in his own blood, in the swath which the battle had cut.

His work was done.  This came to him slowly, as the sun clears away the mists of morning.  Something—­Some One—­had reached out and touched him on the shoulder, had summoned him.

When he left Brinkwort’s Farm yesterday, it was with the desire to live, to do large things.  He and Rudyard had clasped hands, and Rudyard had made a promise to him, which gave him hope that the broken roof-tree would be mended, the shattered walls of home restored.  It had seemed to him then that his own mistake was not irreparable, and that the way was open to peace, if not to happiness.

When he first came to this war he had said, “I will do this,” and, “I will do that,” and he had thought it possible to do it in his own time and because he willed it.  He had put himself deliberately in the way of the Scythe, and had thrown himself into its arc of death.

To have his own way by tricking Destiny into giving him release and absolution without penalty—­that had been his course.  In the hour when he had ceased to desire exit by breaking through the wall and not by the predestined door, the reply of Destiny to him had been:  “It is not for you to choose.”  He had wished to drink the cup of release, had reached out to take it, but presently had ceased to wish to drink it.  Then Destiny had said:  “Here is the dish—­drink it.”

He closed his eyes to shut out the staring light, and he wished in a vague way that he might shut out the sounds of the battle—­the everlasting boom and clatter, the tearing reverberations.  But he smiled too, for he realized that his being where he was alone meant that the army had moved on over that last hill; and that there would soon be the Relief for which England prayed.

There was that to the good; and he had taken part in it all.  His battery, a fragment of what it had been when it galloped out to do its work in the early morning, had had its glorious share in the great day’s work.

He had had the most critical and dangerous task of this memorable day.  He had been on the left flank of the main body, and his battery had suddenly faced a terrific fire from concealed riflemen who had not hitherto shown life at this point.  His promptness alone had saved the battery from annihilation.  His swift orders secured the gallant withdrawal of the battery into a zone of comparative safety and renewed activity, while he was left with this one abandoned gun and his slain men and fellow-officers.

But somehow it all suddenly became small and distant and insignificant to his senses.  He did not despise the work, for it had to be done.  It was big to those who lived, but in the long movement of time it was small, distant, and subordinate.