‘They fall well.  Yes, the English fall like men,’ said my lord, pardoning and embracing the cuffed nation.  ’Bodies knocked over, hearts upright.  That’s example; we breed Ironsides out of a sight like that.  If it weren’t for a cursed feeble Government scraping ‘conges’ to the taxpayer—­well, so many of our good fellows would not have to fall.  That I say; for this thing is going to happen some day, mind you, sir!  And I don’t want to have puncheons and hogsheads of our English blood poured out merely to water the soil of a conquered country because English Governments are a craven lot, not daring risk of office by offending the taxpayer.  But, on!’

Weyburn sent Lady Charlotte glowing words of the composition in progress.

They worked through a day, and a second day—­talked of nothing else in the intervals.  Explanatory answers were vouchsafed to Aminta’s modest inquiries at Finch, as she pictured scenes of smoke, dust and blood from the overpowering plain masculine lines they drew, terrible in bluntness.  The third morning Lord Ormont had map and book to verify distances and attempt a scale of heights, take names of estates, farms, parishes, commons, patches of woodland.  Weyburn wrote his fair copy on folio paper, seven-and-thirty pages.  He read it aloud to the author on the afternoon of the fourth day, with the satisfaction in his voice that he felt.  My lord listened and nodded.  The plan for the defence of England’s heart was a good plan.

He signed to have the manuscript handed to him.  A fortified London secure of the Thames for abundant supplies, well able to breathe within earthworks extending along the southern hills, was clearly shown to stand the loss of two big battles on the Sussex weald or more East to North-east, if fortune willed it.

He rose from his chair, paced some steps, with bent head, came back thoughtfully, lifted the manuscript sheets for another examination.  Then he stooped to the fire, spreading the edges unevenly, so that they caught flame.  Weyburn spied at him.  It was to all appearance the doing of a man who had intended it and brought it to the predetermined conclusion.

‘About time for you to be off for your turn at Chiallo’s,’ our country’s defender remarked, after tossing the last half-burnt lump under the grate and shovelling at it.

‘I will go, my lord,’ said Weyburn—­and he was glad to go.

He went, calculated his term of service under Lord Ormont.  He was young, not a philosopher.  Waste of anything was abhorrent to a nature pointed at store of daily gain, if it were only the gain in a new or a freshened idea; and time lost, work lost, good counsel to the nation lost, represented horrid vacuity to him, and called up the counter demonstration of a dance down the halls of madness, for proof that we should, at least, have jolly motion of limbs there before Perdition struck the great gong.  Ay, and we should be twirling with a fair form on the