During the first nights of Desmond's sufferings, the Squire had lived through what had seemed an eternity of torment.
Now there was no more agony.

Morphia could be freely given--and would be given till all was over.

The boy's young strength was resisting splendidly, a vitality so superb was hard to beat; but beaten it would be, by the brutality of the bullet which had inflicted an internal injury past repair, against which the energy of the boy's youth might hold out for a few days--not more.

That was why he had been allowed to bring his son home--to die.

If there had been a ray, a possibility of hope, every resource of science would have been brought to bear on saving him, there in that casualty clearing-station, itself a large hospital, where the Squire had found him.
All the scenes, incidents, persons of the preceding days were flowing in one continuous medley through the Squire's mind--the great spectacle of the back of the Army, with all its endless movement, its crowded roads and marching men, the hovering aeroplanes, the _camouflaged_ guns, the long trains of artillery waggons and motor-lorries, strange faces of Kaffir boys and Chinese, grey lines of German prisoners.