L A N L) AN D W A T L K 
rsovemuei -iu, nji^. 
lloor. Tliov exchanged remarks. Jones was already 
'■ decorated it seemed, having snatched success from 
his cousin's liands, while little aware whose help had 
made it easier. . . . And once again there stole 
across the inmost mind of Smith that strange, insistent 
whisper :" I owed it to him . . . but, by (iod, I owe 
more than that . . . I mean to pay it too. . . . !" 
There was not a trace of bitterness or envy now ; 
only this profound conviction, of obscurest origin, that 
it was right and absolutelj' just — full, honest repayment 
of a debt incurred. Some ancient balance of account 
was being settled ; there was no " chance " : injustice 
and cajirice played no role at all. . . . And a deeper 
understancUng of life's ironies crept into him ; for if 
everything was jusf, there was no room for \\himpering. 
And the voice jiersisted above the somid of busy 
footsteps in the ward : " I owe it . . . I'll pay it 
gladly . . . !" 
Tlu-ough the pain and weakness tiic whisjier died 
away. He was exhausted. There were periods of uncon- 
sciousness, but there were periods of half-consciousness as 
well ; then flashes of another kind of consciousness 
altogether, when, bathed in high, soft light, he was 
aware of things he could not quite account for. He saw. 
It was absolutely real. Only, the critical faculty was 
gone. He did not question what he saw, as he stared 
across at his cousin's bed. He knew. Perhaps the 
beaten, worn-out body let something through at last. 
The nen-es, overstrained to numbness, lay \-ery still. 
The physical system, battered and depleted, made no 
cry. The clamour of the flesh was hushed. He was 
aware, however, of an undeniable exaltation of the 
spirit in him, as he lay and gazed towards his cousin's 
bed. . . . 
Across the night of time, it seemed to him, the picture 
stole before his inner eye with a certainty that left no 
room for doubt. It was not the cells of memory in his 
brain of To-day that ga\-e up their dead, it was the 
eternal Self in him that remembered and understood — 
the soul. . . . 
With that satisfaction which is born of full com- 
prehension, he watched the light glow and spread about 
the little bed. Thick matting deadened the foot- 
stejis of nurses, orderlies, doctors. New cases were 
brought in, "old" cases were carried out; he ignored 
them ; he saw only the light above his cousin's bed 
grow stronger. He lay still and stared. It came 
neither from the ceiling nor the floor ; it unfolded like a 
cloud of shining smoke. And the little lamp, the 
sheets, the figure framed between them — all these slid 
cleverly away and vanished utterly. He stood in another 
place that had lain behind all these appearances — a land- 
scape with wooded hills, a foaming river, the sun just 
sinking below the forest, and dusk creeping from a gorge 
along the lonely banks. In the warm air there was a 
perfume of great flowers and heavy-scented trees ; there 
were fire-flies, and the taste of spray from the tumbling 
ri\'er was on his lips. Across the water a large bird 
flapped its heavy wings, as it moved down-stream to find 
another fishing place. For he and his companion had 
disturbed it as they broke out of the thick foliage and 
reached the river-bank. The companion, moreover, was 
his brother ; they ever hunted together ; there was a 
passionate link between them born of blood and of 
affection — they were twins. ... 
It all was as clear as though of Yesterday. In 
his heart was the lust of the hunt ; in his blood was 
the lust of woman ; and thick behind these lurked the 
jealousy and fierce desire of a primitive day. But, 
though clear as of Yesterday, he knew that it was of 
long, long ago. . . and his brother came up close 
beside him, resting his bloody spear with a clattering 
soimd against the boulders on the shore. He saw the 
gleaming of the metal in the sunset, he saw the shining 
ghtter of the spray upon the boulders, he saw his brother's 
eyes look straight into his own. And in them shone a 
light that was neither the reflection of the sunset, nor the 
excitement of the hunt just over. 
" It escaped us," said his brother. " Yet I know 
my first spear struck." 
" It followed the fawn that crossed," was the reply. 
" Besides, we came down wind, thus giving it warning. 
Our flocks, at any rate, are safer — " 
The other laughed significantly. 
" It is not the .salety of our flocks that troubles mc 
just now, brother." he interrupted eagerly, while the 
light burned more deeply in his eyes. " It is, rather, that 
she waits for me by the fire across the river, and that 
I would get to her." ^\■ith your help added to my love," 
he went on in a trusting voice, " the gods ha\e shown me 
the fa\'our of true happiness ! " He pointed with his 
spear to a camp-iire on the further bank, turning his head 
as he strode to plunge into the stream and swim across. 
For an instant,' then, the other felt his natural love 
turn into bitter hate. His own fierce passion, uncon- 
fessed, concealed, burst into instant flame. That the 
girl should become his brother's wife sent the blood 
surging through his veins in fury. He felt his life and 
all that he desired go down in ashes. . . . He watched 
his brother stride towards the water, the deer-skin cast 
across one naked shoulder— when another object caught 
his practised eye. In mid-air it passed suddenly, like a 
shining gleam ; it seemed to hang a second ; then it 
swept swiftly forward past his head — and downward. It 
had leaped with a blazing fury from the over-hanging 
bank behind ; he saw the blood still streaming from its 
wounded flank. It must land— he saw it with a secret, 
awful pleasure — full upon the striding figure, whose head 
was turned away ! 
The swiftness of that leap, however, was not so 
swift but that he could easily ha\e used his spear. Indeed, 
he gripped it strongly. His skill, his strength, his aim — • 
he knew them well enough. But hate and love, fastening 
upon his heart, held all his muscles still. He hesitated. 
He was no murderer, yet he paused. He heard the roar, 
the ugly thud, the crash, the cry for help — too late 
. . . and when, an instant afterwards, his steel plunged 
into the great beast's heart, the human heart and life he 
might have saved lay still for ever. ... He heard 
the water rushing past, an icy wind came dow^n the gorge 
against his naked back, he saw the fire shine upon the 
further bank . . . and the figure of a girl in skins was 
wading across, seeking out the shallow places in the dusk, 
and calhng wildly as she came. . . . Then darkness 
hid the entire landscape, yet a darkness that was deeper, 
bluer than the velvet of the night alone. . . . 
And he shrieked aloud in his remorseful anguish : 
" May the gods forgive me, for I did not mean it ! Oh, 
that i might undo . . . that I might repay . . . !" 
That his cries disturbed the weary occupants in 
more than one bed is certain, but he remembers chiefly 
that a nurse was quickly by his side, and that something 
she gave him soothed his violent pain and helped him 
into deeper sleep again. There was, he noticed anyhow, 
no longer the soft, clear, blazing light about his cousin's 
bed. He saw only the faint glitter of the oil-lamps down 
the length of the great room. . . . 
And some weeks later he went back to fight. The 
picture, however, never left his memory. It stayed with 
him as an actual reality that was neither delusion nor 
hallucination. He believed that he understood at last 
the meaning of the tie that had fettered him and puzzled 
him so long. The memory of those far days of 
shepherding beneath the stars of long ago, remained 
vividly beside him. He kept his secret, however. In 
many a talk with his cousin beneath the nearer stars 
of Flanders no word of it ever passed his lips. 
The friendship between them, meanwhile, experi- 
enced a curious deepening, though unacknowledged in 
any spoken words. Smith, at any rate, on his side, put 
into it an affection that was a brave man's love. He 
watched over his cousin. In the fighting especially, 
when possible, he sought to jHotect and shield him, re- 
gardless of his own personal safety. He delighted secretly 
in the honours his cousin had already won. He himself was 
not yet even mentioned in despatches, and no public 
distinction of any kind had come his way. 
His V.C. eventually -well, he was no longer 
occupying his_ body when it was bestowed. He had 
already " left." . . . He was now conscious, possibly, 
of other experiences besides that one of ancient, jirimitive 
days when he and his brother were shepherding beneath 
other stars. But the reckless heroism which saved his 
cousin under fire may later enshrine another memory 
which, at some far future time, shall reawaken as a " hallu- 
cination " from a Past that to-day. is called the Pre- 
sent. . . . The notion, at any rate, flashed across his 
mind before he " left." 
-I) 
