"He never wrote to me," said John.
At last it was out, the thorn in his side which had tormented him.
"If he had written," John continued, "if only he had written once. When we parted it was good-bye—just that, nothing more; but I thought he would write, and that everything would be cleared up. And now, silence."
The week wore itself away. A few details were forthcoming: enough to prove that a glorious deed had been done at the cost of a gallant life. England was thrilled because the hero happened to be the son of a popular Minister. The name of Desmond rang through the Empire. John bought every paper and devoured the meagre lines which left so much between them. It seemed that a certain position had to be taken—a small hill. For the hundredth time in this campaign too few men were detailed for the task. The reek of that awful slaughter on Spion Kop was still strong in men's nostrils. Beauregard and his soldiers halted at the foot of the hill, halted in the teeth of a storm of bullets. Then the word was given to attack. But the fire from invisible foes simply exterminated the leading files. The moment came when those behind wavered and recoiled. And then Desmond darted forward—alone, cheering on his fellows. They were all afoot. The men rallied and followed. But they could not overtake the gallant figure pressing on in front. He ran—so the Special Correspondent reported—as if he were racing for a goal. The men staggered after him, aflame with his ardour. They reached the top, captured the guns, drove down the enemy, and returned to the highest point to find their leader—shot through the heart, and dead, and smiling at death. Of all the men who passed through that blizzard of bullets he was the youngest by two years.
Warde told John that the Head Master would preach upon the last Sunday evening of the term, with special reference to Harry Desmond. Could John bear it? John nodded. Since the first breakdown in Warde's study, his heart seemed to have turned to ice. His religious sense, hitherto strong and vital, failed him entirely. He abandoned prayer.
Evensong was over in Harrow Chapel. The Head Master, stately in surplice and scarlet hood, entered the pulpit, and, in his clear, calm tones, announced his text, taken from the 17th verse of the First Chapter of the Book of Ruth—
"The Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me."