^mmm^^ff^l yy^ commun.caled alon, {|,cm. li was 
a stealthy tremur -motion without noise. I could hear no 
footfalls. Then I heard a slight clink like the sound of side- 
arms. By this time the snow had stopped, and the moon 
was strugglintr through the clouds, shedding a ghostly light 
upon the desolation around us. The next moment I saw 
the figure of a tall Australian, in a wideawake hat, coming 
noiselessly round the bend of the trench. I can't deny that 
an unpleasantly cold feeling ran down my spine, and fo* a 
moment I stood absolutely inert, with my revolver hanging 
loose in my hand. Before I had time to raise it, my batman, 
a stout little chap, was down on one knee, and had the butt 
of his rifle up to his shoulder. He fired. The 'Australian' 
stopped, did a kind of half-turn, and suddenly fell forward 
on his face, f rushed up, with my batman at my heels, 
and flashing my torch on to the body — for it was a body, 
and damnably material — turned it over. The man had his 
hand clutched over his heart — it was a fair bull's-eye. Even 
as I looked at him, it struck me that his face was not that 
of an Australian at all ; there was nothing aquiline about it 
— it was broad and flat, with rabbit-like ears. He seemed 
to have a lot of clothes on him. I tore open his tunic. Under- 
neath was the field-grey uniform of a Prussian officer. 'Dot 
and carry one,' I said to myself, and I went through his 
pockets — tail pockets first : the Hun always carries his 
papers there. As I was looking through the contents, my 
batman suddenly said : 'Jesus ! . . . look at his wrist, sir !' 
And then I saw that he had a long piece of steel, thin as a 
knitting-needle, but sharply pointed, fitting into a cork 
handle, and loosely strapped to his wrist. And on his feet 
he wore a pair of rubber shoes. 
" It didn't take much more to work it all out. We followed 
his tracks in the snow with some dilificulty, and traced them 
to the place where the trench crossed the stream. He must 
have entered by that gap, in spite of the 'gooseberries.' No 
doubt he then concealed himself in a disused sap, and waited 
for the ration-party to pass until he sprang out on the last 
man, and, putting his hand over his mouth, stabbed him 
through the heart from behind. As a matter of fact, his 
second victim had not yet been buried, and the M.O. after- 
wardssiiowed me a tiny puncture just to the left of the 
spinal cord, so small that it looked more like the bite of a 
flea than a wound. That Hun was a dirty Thug, but I must 
say he had a nerve. He must have established just where 
our posts were by some pretty cool reconnaissance, and I 
dare say he had crawled near enough to one of them 
to hear all the men had to say about it until he became 
so confident he had struck the fear of the supernatural into 
all of us that he w-as prepared to stalk us in the open." 
"Yes," said Tracy, after a pause; "but I don't quite see 
the point of it all." 
"Tknow what you mean," said Meredith. "Why should 
a Boche officer take all those risks merely to stab one poor 
devil of a ration-carrier in the back ? I'll tell you why, 
my friend. You've been fighting the Turk in Gailipoli, and 
the Turk's a gentleman — more or less. He's a clean fighter. 
But the Hun doesn't confine himself to carnal weapons, 
and he's not exactly a perfect gentle knight. Do you remem- 
ber that passage in their War Book where their General 
Staff says that to down the other fellow you must smash 
him 'spiritually' as well as physically? ' Terrorismus,' I 
think they call it in their ugly lingo. I've often thought 
of it. Well, the Boche Was trying to put the wind up among 
our fellows. He knew we had onl}' just taken over, he 
knew the Welsh temperament, and he knew we were full of 
new drafts. How did. he know ? You've not served in 
France, ot you wouldn't ask that. But I admit it used to 
puzzle ,us ourselves in the early days, till we discovered their" 
telephonic tricks of eavesdropping — amplifiers, buried cables, 
and all the rest of it. The whole forward area's a perfect 
whispering gallery. Our 'signals' have countered all that 
now. But just think of it all ! — the brute had worked out 
every psychological detail, like a plan of operations. Yes ! 
The Hun's a devil. . . . Isn't it hot ? Pass the soda- 
water, please." 
"All the same," said Letcher, at length, subdued by the 
sedative of Meredith's quiet recital, "your story doesn't 
refute my proposition ; it confirms it. The dead do tiot 
return. They've had enough of it." 
And he stared at the empty chairs in the mess. 
Four Poems: By Enid Bagnold 
Time was when the Saint . . 
Time was when the Saint 
Had another word j-et. 
His last, his best card, 
His fabulous threat. 
When his blue mantle flew 
Round his shadowy frame 
And he rushed on the flame 
Crying : "Glorious Death ! 
Now I die. 
And my ashes speak louder than I ! " 
In the gleam of his halo of gold. 
He cries : ' ' Gloiious Death ! " 
From the glass of the churches of old. 
But his ashes are dumb 
At the bottom of Time 
In a stone-covered tomb. 
Time, oh ! when the wild lover cried : 
"I sink, I bleed at your side. 
If I die, you will love ! " 
When man had this knife 
To his hand lying — 
When we couldn't plead with our breath. 
When we couldn't dazzle by living. 
We could astonish by death. 
We could conquer by d\'ing. 
We could empty our bod}' of breath 
And man would fall dumb and implore. 
Grow white, grow whiter, and mourning. 
Hear the voice of the corpse evermore. 
But man isn't shocked any more . . . 
. Though we lie ^s flowers in a border 
When a child has hit head after head 
And brought them all down in disorder. 
Sick, dying, dead. . \ 
The child passes on to the door 
Of the garden, hearing a call. 
And man isn't shocked any more, 
And death wins nothing at all. 
Before Dawn 
After the little stars, the roses of the night 
Had withered on her cheek and left her pale ; 
When the down-diving moon had fall'n froin sight, 
Slipt into the river and set sail. 
Then in the cottage in the wood the dreamers turn 
And rustle in the embraces of their dream ; 
Then even the w'nd stirs nothing in the fern. . . . 
Then even the fish stirs nothing in the stream. 
The Last Down Trains 
At the bottom of the meadow, the dim, moving meadow. 
Night in a clatter came clinging to the trains. 
Night in a rfittle came all among the cattle. 
Caught like a spider in the last-loosed chains. 
The old hag night for a minute in the meadow 
Woke up the bat-broods breeding all awry. 
Woke up the cat-broods breeding in the nettles . . . 
And scandalously screaming round the curve of the metals 
Passed out clinging as the trains went by. 
Solitude 
Dear Solitude, beside my fire 
The other chair is yours. 
My dearest friend does not desire 
To burst these shuttered doors. 
The memory of my dearest friend 
Is long, too long for me. 
My secrets in his hollow ear 
Echo eternally. 
Dear Solitude, my heart is bare. 
And any* traveller you find there 
Will not return to me. 
