'It's wonderful how he's grown and _thought_ since he's been out
there. But do we ever consider--do we ever realize--enough!--what a
marvellous thing it is that young men--boys--like Desmond--should be
able to live, day after day, face to face with death--consciously
and voluntarily--and get quite used to it? Which of us before
the war had ever been in real physical danger--danger of
violent death?--and that not for a few minutes--but for days,
hours, weeks? It seems to make men over again--to create a
new type--by the hundred thousand. And to some men it is an
extraordinary intoxication--this conscious and deliberate
acceptance--defiance!--of death--for a cause--for their country. It
sets them free from themselves. It matures them, all in a moment--as
though the bud and the flower came together. Oh, of course, there
are those it brutalizes--and there are those it stuns. But Desmond
was one of the chosen.'
The night passed. The Squire came in after midnight, and took his
place by the bed.
Desmond was then restless and suffering, and the nurse in charge
whispered to the Squire that the pulse was growing weaker.
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