'Desmond!' he said in a clear voice, 'the offensive's begun. The Chief in my room at the War Office has just been telephoning me. It began at eight this morning—on a front of fifty miles. Can you hear me?' The boy opened his eyes—straining them on Arthur.
'It's begun!' he said eagerly—'begun! What have they done?'
'The bombardment opened at dawn—about five—the German infantry attacked about eight. It's been going on the whole morning—and down the whole front from Arras to the Scarpe.'
'And we've held?—we've held?'
'So far magnificently. Our outpost troops have been withdrawn to the battle-zone—that's all. The line has held everywhere. The Germans have lost heavily.'
'Outpost troops!' whispered the boy—'why, that's nothing! We always expected—to lose the first line. Good old Army!'
A pause, and then—so faintly breathed as to be scarcely audible, and yet in ecstasy—'England!—England!'
His joy was wonderful—heart-breaking—while all those around him wept.
He lay murmuring to himself a little while, his hand in Pamela's. Then for a last time he looked at his father, but was now too weak to speak. His eyes, intently fixed on the Squire, kept their marvellous brightness—no one knew how long. Then gently, as though an unseen hand put out a light, the brilliance died away—the lids fell—and with a few breaths Desmond's young life was past.