'The war still drags on, Luscombe.'

'Yes, it still drags on,' and I looked up from the copy of The Times which I had been reading. 'They seem to have had bad weather at the front. From what I can judge, the Somme push is practically at an end for this winter, unless better weather sets in.'

The train by which we travelled had just left Bristol, and would not stop until we arrived in London.

'Of course,' I went on, 'it will be Haig's policy to keep the Germans busy all the winter, but I don't imagine that much more advance will be made before spring comes.'

'That will mean another winter in the trenches, with its ghastly toll of suffering and sacrifice of human life.'

'I am afraid so,' I said, 'but then we are at war.'

'How long is this going to last?' and there was a note of impatience in his voice.

'Until the Germans are brought to their knees,' I replied, 'and that will be no easy matter. When a nation like Germany has spent forty years in preparation for war, it isn't easily beaten. You see they were piling up mountains of munitions, while the Krupp's factories were turning out thousands of big guns all the time we were asleep. Now we are paying the price for it.'

'The same old tale,' he laughed, 'big guns, explosives, millions of men.'

'It must be the same old tale,' I replied. 'This is a war of exhaustion, and the nations which can hold out longest will win.'

'Then where does God come in?' he asked.

I was silent. For one thing, I did not wish to enter into a religious argument, and for another I scarcely knew what to say.

'You know those words in the Bible, Luscombe,—"Some trust in horsemen, some in chariots, but we will trust in the strength of the Lord our God." How much are we trusting in God?'

'It seems to me,' I replied, 'that God gives the victory to the biggest and best equipped armies.'

'That's blank materialism, blank atheism!' he cried almost passionately. 'We don't give God a chance, that is why we haven't won the war before now.'

I laughed good-humouredly, for even yet the mental attitude he had taken up seemed to me almost absurd.

'I see what you are thinking, but I tell you what,—the materialism of the country is adding to this frightful welter of blood, to this ghastly holocaust. The destinies of men and nations are not decided primarily by big guns, or mighty armies, and until we, as a nation, get back to a realization of the necessity of God, the war will drag on. As I told you before, when I was up at Ypres, I was convinced that if big armies, and big guns, and poison gas shells, could have won the war, Germany would have won long ago. But she was fighting the devil's battle, she was trusting in "reeking tube and iron shard,"—as Rudyard Kipling puts it. That is why she failed. With such a cause as ours, and with such heroism as our men have displayed, we should, if we had claimed the help of Almighty God, have won long since.'

'Nonsense, my dear chap.'

'Look here,' he cried, 'on what, in your opinion, do we depend for victory?'

I was silent for a few seconds before replying.

'On the mobilization of all our Empire's forces,' I replied, 'on steady, persevering courage, and on the righteousness of our cause.'

'But supposing our cause hadn't been righteous, what then?'

I saw what was in his mind, but I did not feel like yielding to him. 'It's no use talking this high-falutin stuff, Edgecumbe,' I said. 'We are at war, and war means in these days, at all events, big guns. It means the utilization of all the material forces at our command.'

'Then you believe more in a big army, and in what they call our unconquerable Navy, than in Almighty God? Do you believe in God at all, Luscombe?'

'Of course I do,' I replied; 'I am no atheist. All the same, it is our
Navy which has saved us.'

'Admiral Beatty doesn't believe that,' he replied, 'and if any man knows what a navy can do, he does. Your position is identical with that of the Germans. Why, man, if God Almighty hadn't been very patient with us, we should have been beaten long ago. Germany's materialism, Germany's atheism, German devilry has been our salvation as a nation. If the logic of big guns had been conclusive, we should have been annihilated. That chap Rudyard Kipling saw a long way into the truth.'

'When? Where?' I asked.

'When he wrote that Recessional:

Far-famed, our navies melt away,
On dune and headland sinks the fire,
Lo, all the pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre.
God of the nations, spare us yet!
Lest we forget, lest we forget.

'And mind you, Kipling is a believer in force, and a believer in the utilization of all the Empire's resources; but he sees that these things are not enough. Why, man, humanly speaking, we stand on the brink of a volcano.'

'Nonsense,' I replied.

'Is it nonsense? Suppose, for example, that the Germans do what they threaten, and extend their submarine menace? Suppose they sink all merchant vessels, and thus destroy our food supplies? Where should we be then? Or suppose another thing: suppose Russia were to negotiate a separate peace, and free all the German and Austrian armies in the East, which I think is quite probable—should we be able to hold them up?'

'Do you fear these things?' I asked.

'I fear sometimes lest, as a nation, because we have forgotten God to such an extent, He has an awful lesson to teach us. In spite of more than two years of carnage and misery, we still put our trust in the things which are seen.'

'How do you know?' I replied. 'Aren't you judging on insufficient evidence?'

'Perhaps I am,' he answered. 'As you said some time ago, I know very little about England or English life, but I am going to study it.'

'How?' I asked with a laugh.

'As far as I can see, I shall be some months in England,' he went on, 'and as it happens, my brigade is situated near London. And London is the centre of the British Empire; it is at the heart of it, and sends out its life-blood everywhere. I am going to study London; I am going to the House of Commons, and understand the feeling of our Government. I am going to the places of amusements, the theatres, the music-halls, and see what they really mean in the life of the people. I am going to visit the churches, and try to understand how much hold religion has upon the people. I am going to see London life, by night as well as by day.'

'You'll have a big job.'

'That may be, but I want to know, I want to understand. You don't seem to believe me, Luscombe, but I am terribly in earnest. This war is getting on my nerves, it is haunting me night and day, and I cannot believe that it is the will of God it should continue. Mind you, Germany must be beaten, will be beaten,—of that I am convinced. That verse of Kipling's is prophetic of our future,—it cannot be otherwise. The nation which has depended upon brute force and lies, must sooner or later crumble; the country guilty of what she has been guilty of must in some way or another perish,—of that I am sure. Else God is a mockery, and His eternal law a lie. Some day Germany, who years ago longed for war, brought about war, and gloried in her militarism, will realize the meaning of those words:

"Lo, all the pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre."

But we are paying the price of our materialism, too. Do you remember those words of our Lord, Who, when speaking to the Jews about the Galileans of olden times, said, "Suppose ye that these Galileans were sinners above all the Galileans, because they suffered such things? I tell you, nay, but except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish." It is not pleasant to talk about, is it? but Rome and Byzantium fell because of their impurities, and they seemed as firmly established as the seven hills on which Rome stood. Germany will fall, because she has trusted supremely in the arm of flesh, with all that it means. Primarily it is righteousness that exalteth a nation, while the nation which forgets God is doomed to perish.'

'I might be listening to a Revivalist preacher,' I laughed, 'some Jonah or Jeremiah proclaiming the sins of a nation. But seriously, my dear fellow, do you think that because we do not talk so much about these things, that we have of necessity forgotten them? Besides, we have been sickened by the Kaiser's pious platitudes; he has been continually using the name of God, and claiming His protection, even when the country he rules has been doing the most devilish things ever known in history. I think that is why we have been sensitive about using the name of God. Perhaps the nation is more religious than you think.'

'I hope it is,' he replied, 'for of this I am sure, the secret of a speedy and triumphant victory lies in the fact of our nation being linked to God. The question with me is,—Germany is doomed, because it has depended, and is depending, on brute force. That poem of Kipling's describes them exactly. He might have had them in his mind when he wrote:

If drunk with thought of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the law.

That is their history. The question is, isn't there a danger that it is becoming our history too?'

'One line describes them very well,' I laughed; 'certainly they belong to the "lesser breeds without the law."'

'I don't know. Just think of it,—Germany's defying the whole world. Speaking from the standpoint of a military power, Germany has reason for her boastfulness. For more than two years she has been holding back and withstanding the greatest nations of the world. Humanly speaking, they are a great people, but they are scientific savages. If ever a people lived according to the doctrine that might is right, they have, and if that doctrine could be proved to be true, they'd have done it. But their creed is as false as hell, that is why they are doomed. But what of England, man, what of England?'

'You wouldn't have this war conducted in the spirit of a Revival meeting, would you?' I laughed.

'Why not? If it is God's war, it should be fought in the spirit of God. We are fighting to destroy what is opposed to God's will, therefore we should fight as He would have us fight. But here comes the question. Is it the supreme conviction of the nation that we are fighting God's battles? Is it the uppermost thought in our mind? I hate as much as any man the hypocrisy of calling upon God, while doing the devil's work; but are we not denuding ourselves of power by fighting God's battles as though He didn't exist?'

The train presently drew up at Paddington station, where we alighted.

'Look, Luscombe,' said Edgecumbe, nodding towards an officer, 'there's
Springfield. I wonder what he's doing here?'

'Don't let him see us, anyhow,' I said quickly. 'Come this way.' And I hurried to the passage which leads towards the departure platform.

'Why didn't you want him to see us?' he asked.

I did not reply till we reached the restaurant, and then I spoke to him gravely.

'Edgecumbe,' I said, 'you were telling me just now that you intended to study the life of London, and that you meant to go to all sorts of places.'

'Yes,' he replied, 'what then?'

'Only this: take care of yourself, and don't let any one know what your plans are.'

'You must have a reason for saying that.'

'I have. You have told me more than once about your feeling that you and
Springfield knew each other before you lost your memory.'

'Yes,' he replied, 'what then?'

'You say you had the feeling that Springfield was your enemy?'

'Yes, but I have no proof. Sometimes I am ashamed of harbouring such thoughts.'

'Self-preservation is the first law of life,' I said sententiously. 'Think, Edgecumbe,—some one shot at you in France,—why? You say you don't know that you have a single enemy in the world. Then think of your recent illness.'

'But—but——' and I saw a look of wonder in his eyes.

'I only tell you to be careful,' I interposed. 'Don't let any one know your plans, and whatever you do, don't have anything to do with Springfield.'

The words had scarcely passed my lips, when Springfield entered the room.