There was a bugle call. It was the first signal for departure. He held out his hand ... our eyes met and spoke the same great thought, the same great fear.
I was the weaker man, and the question which wrung my heart, escaped to my lips.
"When shall we meet again?"
He, proud and stern at the thought of danger, repeated my words.
"Shall we meet again?"
Then he broke the short silence. "To die like that, and only thirty.... I'm afraid I don't deserve such a grace."
Then becoming the true soldier he always was, he struck me on the shoulder and said—
"I've an idea, old friend. I'll write to you from 'là-bas,' as often as I can ... and from the impressions you get, joined to mine, I'm sure you'll be able to write some touching pages. I am your War Correspondent."
He embraced me, and I felt that his promise was one of those which are kept.
III—A PRIEST'S STORY OF THE MAN NOT AFRAID TO DIE