His eyes rested on the open page of the story-book:—
"When Death is coming near,
When thy heart shrinks in fear
And thy limbs fail,
Then raise thy hands and pray
To Him who smoothes the way
Through the dark vale."
He bowed his head and closed the book quietly, placing it near the child's pillow. Downstairs the clock chimed a quarter after ten—cheery little chimes, ticking off the flight of time as if endless days and years still remained for all who heard them.
And yet for him who listened only a few hours of life remained. Death called him—not in the heat and excitement of battle, but in this still hour of cool blood and calm reflection. It made it vastly harder to obey.
Never again would he hear those familiar tinkling chimes. This was his last farewell to all that he held dear. Death coldly beckoned him, as Sintram was beckoned at the entrance of the gorge. His hour had come to pass into the Shadow. The stern implacable demand of duty was ringing in his soul, and he dared gaze no longer on his sleeping child. If she should wake and look into his eyes, courage, honour, duty, all that makes man obedient unto death, might fail him even now. He dared not press his lips upon her cheek; he dared not even touch her hand.
She stirred and muttered something in her sleep. He quickly raised and kissed a few strands of her lovely hair; it was the last touch, the final leave-taking!
The father turned away. The child slept on.
A hundred yards from the bungalow—appointed to stay there, so that Flossie should not hear and wonder—a motor-car awaited him. The chauffeur belonged to his own corps—the Engineers. The man saluted him and looked anxiously at the drawn—white face, on which the lamp-light fell. Not a word was spoken. Wardlaw took his seat, and immediately the car, like a sentient thing let loose, sped swiftly on the road to Dover.
It was a night of starshine and soft breezes. As they climbed the rising ground, the pure air from the sea grew stronger. Bracing, health-giving, breathing life, it fanned the face of the silent man who was rushing towards his self-appointed doom. Stiff and rigid, he sat, staring into the night, but conscious of nothing around him or before him. All his thoughts were of what was left behind—the dainty bedroom with the shaded light, the rosy sleeping child, the delicate dimpled face that he should see no more, his one ewe lamb of all the world.