And then, the hospital.

Nothing very much doing, so he was told.

Yet hour after hour the wounded came in, men shattered by bomb and shell and rifle-bullet, in the daily raids that went on throughout the line.

And scarcely a moan, scarcely a word of complaint!--men giving up their turn with the surgeon to a comrade--'Never mind me, sir--he's worse nor me!'-- or the elder cheering the younger--'Stick it, young'un--this'll get you to Blighty right enough!'-- or, in the midst of mortal pain, signing a field postcard for the people at home, or giving a message to a _padre_ for mother or wife.

Like some monstrous hand, the grip of the war had finally closed upon the Squire's volatile, recalcitrant soul.