"There it is, Rupert."
He said it with deliberate carelessness, as if to show that he was one not easily excited by sudden surprises.
"Where—where?" I asked.
"There—'Lieutenant R. White, Royal Dublin Fusiliers.'"
"Good Lord!" I muttered: for it was true. We had walked right on to the grave of our friend. His name stood on a cross with those of six other officers, and beneath was written in pencil the famous epitaph:
"Tell England, ye who pass this monument,
We died for her, and here we rest content."
The perfect words went straight to Doe's heart.
"Roop," he said, "if I'm killed you can put those lines over me."
I fear I could not think of anything very helpful to reply.
"They are rather swish," I murmured.