He was silent for a few seconds, and then went on quietly: 'You will forgive me, sir, if I seem assertive, but I look on you as my friend—and—and you know all about me—that I know myself. As I have said before, I naturally look at things differently from others. I have to be always beginning de novo. But tell me, sir, what do you think are the greatest curses in the British Army? What ruins most of our soldiers, body and soul?'

I hesitated a second, and then replied, 'Drink and—and impurity.'

'Exactly; and how much is the latter owing to the former?'

'A great deal, I dare say.'

'Just so. Now go a step further. Did not one of England's most prominent statesmen say that he feared drink more than he feared the Germans?'

'That was a rhetorical flourish,' I laughed.

'No, it was a sober considered statement. Now think. Before I—I—that is before God became real to me, I looked at this question from the standpoint of policy. I considered the whole thing in the light of the fact that it was sapping our strength, wasting our manhood. But I have had to go deeper, and now I see——great God, man, it's ghastly! positively ghastly!'

'What is ghastly?' I asked.

'Look here, sir,'—and his voice became very intense,—'I suppose you are typical of the educated Britisher. You stand half-way between the extreme Puritan on the one hand, and the mere man of the world on the other. Tell me this: Do you regard the body as of more importance than the soul? Do you think material success more vital than the uplifting of the real man? Do you look upon any gain won at the expense of a man's character as a good thing?'

'No,' I replied, 'I don't. I am afraid that, as a people, we are gripped very strongly by the material side of things, but theoretically, at all events, yes, and in a deeper way, too, we know that character is of more importance than material advancement.'

'Go a step further, sir. Supposing we could win this war at the expense of the highest ideals of the nation; supposing we could crush German militarism, and all the devilry which it has dragged at its heels, by poisoning our own national life, and by binding ourselves by the chains which we are trying to break in Germany; would it be a good thing?'

'Very doubtful, at all events,' I replied; 'but why are you harping on that?'

'Because I am bewildered, staggered. Don't mistake me; I have not the slightest doubt about the righteousness of our cause. If ever there was a call from Almighty God, there is a call now, and that call is increasing in its intensity as the days go by. If Germany won, the world would not be a fit place to live in; it would be crushed under the iron heel of materialism and brutalism. All that we regard as beautiful and holy, all that the best life of the world has been struggling after, would be strangled, and the race of the nations would be after material gain, material power, brute force. The more I think of it, the more I realize this,—we are fighting for the liberty of the world. But aren't our own men becoming enslaved while they are fighting? Aren't we seeking to win this war of God at the price of our own manhood?'

He was so earnest, so sincere, that I could not help being impressed. Besides, there was truth, a tremendous amount of truth, in what he was saying.

'Either this is God's war,' he went on, 'and we are fighting for God's cause, or we are not. If it is simply a matter of meeting force by force, devilry by devilry then there is not much to choose between us. But if we as a nation,—the pioneer of nations, the greatest nation under the sun,—are fighting for the advancement of the Kingdom of God, then we should eschew the devil's weapons. We should see to it that no victory is won at the cost of men's immortal souls. Besides, we gain no real advantage; I am certain of that. I have been in this war long enough to know that the stamina of our men, the quality of our men, is not made better by this damnable thing. It is all the other way. Our Army is a poorer army because of it, and we have lost more than we have gained by the use of it. That is looking at it purely from the physical standpoint. But surely, if a man believes in Almighty God, he has higher conceptions; when a man fights in the Spirit of God, and looks to Him for strength and for guidance, he has Omnipotent forces on his side. That is why we ought to have won months ago. In reality, this war at the beginning, was a war of might against right, and we have been making it a war of might against might, and we have been willing to sacrifice right for might.'

'But surely,' I said, 'you who have seen a lot of fighting, and have been over the top several times, know that the conditions are so terrible that men do need help. You know, as well as I do, that an artillery bombardment is hell, and that it needs a kind of artificial courage to go through what the lads have to go through.'

'And that brings me back to the point from which I started,' he cried. 'Are we willing to win this war at the cost of men's immortal souls? Mind you, I don't admit your premise for a moment; to admit it would be to impugn the courage of tens of thousands of the boys who have all along refused to touch it. Do you mean to tell me that the abstainers in the Army are less courageous than those who drink? Does any one dare to state that the lads who have refused to touch it have been less brave than those who have had it? To say that would be to insult the finest fellows who ever lived. But here is the point; we admit that drink is a curse, that it is a more baneful enemy than the Germans, that it is degrading not only the manhood of England, but cursing British womanhood, and yet we encourage its use. Now, assuming that our victory depends on this stuff, are we justified in using it? It may be rank treason to say so, but I say better lose the war than win it by means of that which is cursing the souls of our men. But we are not faced with that alternative. Our Army, brave as it is, great as it is, glorious as it is, would be braver, greater, and more glorious, if the thing were abolished for ever. And more than that, by making a great sacrifice for the sake of our highest manhood, we should link ourselves to Almighty God, and thus realize a power now unknown.'

'Is that what the New Testament teaches you?' I said at length. 'Is that the result of your becoming a Christian?'

'Yes,' he replied eagerly. 'I have read through the New Testament again and again. Every word which is recorded of our Lord's sayings I have committed to memory, and I am sure that what I say is right. Either Christianity is a dead letter, a mockery, or we have been fighting this war in a wrong way. We have not been trusting to God for strength, and what is more, the best men in our Army and Navy realize it. Take the two men who, humanly speaking, have the affairs of this war most largely in their hands: Admiral Beatty and Sir William Robertson. What did Sir William Robertson say to one of the heads of the Church of Jesus Christ in England? "Make the men religious, Bishop," he said, "make the men religious." Have you seen that letter he wrote? "We are trusting too much in horsemen and chariots, trusting too much in the arm of flesh, and when the nation depends more on spiritual forces, we shall be nearer victory." What did Admiral Beatty say in that remarkable letter he wrote only a little while ago? "When England looks out with humbler eyes, and with prayer on her lips, then she can begin to count the days towards the end." Does England believe that? "Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts." Does the British Government believe that? Do the people believe it? Do the Churches believe it?'

'But we must have might, and we must have power,' I urged.

'Of course we must. No one would think of denying it. But primarily, primarily, our great hope, our great confidence is not in material forces, but in spiritual. That is the point to which we as a nation must get back, and when we do, the hosts of German militarism will become but as thistledown. That is the call of God in these days, that is what this war should do for our country, it should bring us back to realities, bring us to God. Is it doing that, Captain Luscombe?'

'You know as well as I,' I replied. 'I have not been home for a long time.'

'I shall see presently,' he said, for by this time the shores of England were becoming more and more plain to us. 'Of course, while I was at home during my training, I did not realize things as I do now; my eyes had not been opened. But I shall study England in the light of the New Testament.'

'You will have a busy time,' I laughed.

'I suppose I am to have a commission, sir,' he said just before leaving the boat, 'and I am to go away into an Officers' Training Corps at once. But I have your address and you shall hear from me.'

That same night I wrote a letter to Lorna Bolivick, telling her of my arrival in England, and informing her that in all probability Edgecumbe would be in the country for some time. I wrote to Devonshire, because I had been previously informed that she had been obliged to return home on account of her health.

Three days later I got her reply.

'"Dear Captain Luscombe," she wrote, "I am awfully interested to hear that you are back in England; of course you will come and see us. Father insists that you shall, and you must be sure to bring your friend. I shall take no refusal. If you can give me his address, I will write to him at once, although, seeing we have never met, I think it will be better for you to convey my message. Tell him that I insist on you both coming as soon as possible. I have heaps of things to tell you, but I can't write them. Besides, as we shall be seeing each other soon, there is no need. Telegraph at once the time you will arrive, and remember that I cannot possibly hear of any excuse whatever from either of you."'

Edgecumbe having informed me of his whereabouts, I went to see him, and showed him the letter.

'Why on earth should she want to see me?' he asked.

'I don't know, except that I told her about our meeting,' I replied.
'She took a tremendous interest in you. Don't you remember?

For a few seconds there was a far-away look in his eyes, then evidently he came to a decision.

'Yes, I'll go,' he said, 'I will. I—I—think——' But he did not finish his sentence.

A few days later, we were on our way to Devonshire together, I little realizing the influence our visit would have on the future.