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Hour after hour the men waited, huddled together behind the hastily-formed breastwork of the zareba. "Swabs" occasionally peered through a loophole in the boxes to get a snap-shot at any figure that might be seen creeping about among the distant bushes. Jack, worn out with the night march, stretched himself upon the sand, and, in spite of the constant zip of bullets and discharge of rifles, sank into a deep slumber.

At length he was awakened by a general movement among his comrades: orders had been issued for a portion of the column to fight its way to the Nile, and a square was being formed for the purpose a little to the left of the zareba. In silence, and with anxious expressions on their faces, the men fell into their places, lying down to escape the leaden hail. The force seemed a ridiculously small one to oppose to the swarming masses of the enemy, yet on its success depended the safety of the whole column.

The bugle sounded, and the men sprang to their feet, to be exposed immediately to a heavy fire. Slowly and doggedly they moved forward, now halting to close up gaps, and now changing direction to gain more open ground. The vicious bang of rifles, fired at comparatively close range, told of innumerable sharpshooters lurking around in the grass and shrubs. A bullet suddenly tore the metal ornament from the top of Jack's helmet, and striking the sword-bayonet of a man behind, knocked his rifle nearly out of his hands.

"A miss is as good as a mile!" remarked Sergeant Sparks; but as he spoke Joe Crouch was suddenly flung to the ground as though felled by the stroke of a hammer.

Jack involuntarily uttered a cry of dismay, and the sergeant dropped down on one knee to assist the fallen man. To every one's astonishment, however, the latter rose to his feet unaided, looking rather dazed and gasping for breath, and picking up his rifle staggered back into the ranks. A spent shot had struck him on the bandoleer, demolishing one of the cartridges, but fortunately failing to penetrate the leather belt.

Now and again the square halted to send a volley wherever the enemy seemed to be gathered in any numbers, then continuing the advance in the same cool, deliberate manner.

Jack was marching in the left side, close to one of the rear corners, and, as fate would have it, the left half of the rear face was formed of the – sex, and from the first he had been close to Valentine. They were within a dozen yards of each other, and every few moments Jack turned his head to assure himself that his cousin was unhurt.

For more than an hour the little square had been doggedly pursuing its forward movement, and now the enemy were seen in black masses on the low hills to the left front.

"They're coming, that's my belief!" said Joe Crouch, turning to address his chum. He got no reply; for, at that instant, as the other happened to look round, he saw his cousin stagger and sink down upon the sand. In an instant Jack had sprung to his assistance; but this time it was no false alarm. The bullet had done too well its cruel work. For a moment Valentine seemed to recognize him, and looking up, with his left hand still clutching at his breast, made a ghastly attempt to smile. Then, with a groan, he fell over on his side, and fainted.

A stretcher was brought, and Jack was ordered sharply to get back to the ranks. As he took his place the square halted, and an excited murmur rose on all sides: —

"Here they come! – Thank God! they're going to charge!"

CHAPTER XX.
THE RIVER'S BRINK

"Then he could see that the bright colours were faded from his uniform; but whether they had been washed off during his journey, or from the effects of his sorrow, no one could say." – The Brave Tin Soldier.

Darkness had fallen, and a thick mist rising from the river made the still, night air damp and penetrating; but the weary men, stretched out upon the sand, slept soundly in spite of the cold, and of the scanty protection from it afforded by their clothing. The dark figures of the sentries surrounding the bivouac, moving slowly to and fro, or pausing to rest on their arms, seemed the only signs of wakefulness, except where the occasional gleam of a lantern shone out as the surgeons went their rounds among the wounded.

Jack, however, was not asleep. He seemed instead to be just waking up from a troubled dream, in which all that had happened since he had seen Valentine placed upon the stretcher had passed before his mind in a confused jumble of sights and sounds, leaving only a vague recollection of what had really taken place: – The oncoming mass of Arabs; the crash of the volleys, changing into the continuous roar of independent firing; the pungent reek of the powder as the rolling clouds of smoke enveloped the square; and the sight of the enemy falling in scores, wavering, slackening the pace of their advance, and finally retreating over the distant hills, not one having reached the line of bayonets. Then, in the growing dusk, as the square advanced, the sight of the silver stream showing every now and again amidst the green, cultivated strip of land upon its banks; the wild joy of men suffering the tortures of a burning thirst, which swelled their tongues and blackened their lips; and the pitiful sight of the wounded being held up that they might catch a glimpse of the distant river; the wait on the brink of the broad stretch of cool, priceless water, as each face of the square moved up in turn to take its fill; and then, no sucking the dregs of a warm water-bottle, but a long, cold, satisfying drink.

All this, though so recently enacted, seemed to have left but a faint impression of its reality on Jack's mind; his one absorbing thought being that Valentine was hit, badly wounded, perhaps dying, or even dead.

A man approached, and in the darkness stumbled over one of the slumberers.

"Now, then, where are you coming to?"

"Dunno – wish I did. D'you men belong to the Blankshire? Where's your officer?"

"Can't say. Wait a minute; that's he lying by that bit of bush – Captain Hamling."

Our hero raised himself into a sitting posture. He had recognized the new-comer as a hospital orderly, and in the surrounding stillness heard him deliver his message: —

"Surgeon Gaylard sends his compliments, and would you allow one of your men named Fenleigh to come and see an officer who's badly wounded? He's some relative I think, sir."

"Very good," answered the captain drowsily; "you can find him yourself."

The orderly had no difficulty in doing that, for in a moment Jack was at his side.

"Is he dying?"

"Dunno; he's badly hurt – shot through the lungs, and he's asked for you several times."

It was a cruel night for the wounded, with nothing to shelter them from the bitter cold. Valentine lay upon the ground, with his head propped up against a saddle. The surgeon was stooping over him as the two men approached, and the light of his lamp tell on the pale, pinched features of the sufferer. Within the last three days Jack had seen scores of men hurried into eternity, and his senses had become hardened by constant association with bloodshed and violent death, yet the sight of those unmistakable lines on that one familiar face turned his heart to stone.

"You're some relative, I believe. He seemed very anxious to see you, so I sent the orderly. What? – Yes, you may stay with him if you like; but keep quiet, and don't let him talk more than you can help."

"Is – is he dying, sir?"

"He may live till morning, but I doubt if he will."

Jack went down on his knees. There was no "sir" this time – sword, and sash, and shoulder-strap were all forgotten.

"Val!" The great, grey eyes, already heavy with the sleep of death, opened wide.

"Jack! my dear Jack!"

"Yes; I've come to look after you. Are you in much pain?"

"No – only when I cough – and – it's dreadfully cold."

The listener stifled down a groan. Ah, dear thoughts of long ago! Such things had never happened on the mimic battlefields at Brenlands. This, then, was the reality.

"Jack, I want you to promise me something – your word of honour to a dying man."

A fit of coughing, ending in a groan of agony, interrupted the request.

"Don't talk too much," answered the other in a broken voice. "What is it you want? I'll do anything for you, God knows!"

"I want you to promise that you'll take this ring to Queen Mab – and give it to her with your own hands. Say that I remembered her always – and carried my love for her with me down into the grave. Promise me that you will give it her – yourself!"

Valentine ceased speaking, exhausted with the effort.

"I will, I will!" returned the other, taking the ring. "But don't talk about dying, Val; you'll pull through right enough."

The sufferer answered with a feeble shake of his head, and another terrible fit of coughing left him faint and gasping for breath.

"Stay with me," he whispered.

Jack propped him up to ease his breathing, and wiped the blood from his pallid lips. For a long, long time he sat silently holding the hand of his dying friend; then, fight against it as he would, exhausted nature began to assert herself in an overpowering desire to sleep. Numbed with cold, and wellnigh heart-broken, wretched in body and mind, jealous of the moments as they flew past and of the lessening opportunity of proving his love by any trifling service it might be in his power to render – in spite of all this, an irresistible drowsiness crept over him, and his head fell forward on his knees.

The feeble voice was speaking again.

"What did you say, Val? God forgive me, I cannot keep awake."

Bending close down to catch the words, he could distinguish, even in the darkness, some faint traces of the old familiar smile.

"You used to say – that I had all the luck – but, you remember – at Brenlands – it was the lead captain that got killed."

Jack murmured some reply, he was too worn out and miserable to weep. Once more that terrible struggle to keep his heavy eyes from closing; a dozen times he straightened his back, and groaned in bitterness of spirit at the thought that he could wish to sleep at such a time as this; then once again his head sank under the heavy weight of fatigue and want of rest, and everything became a blank.

Awakening with a start, Jack scrambled to his feet. How long he had slept he could not tell, nor did he realize where he was till the light of a lantern flashing in his eyes brought him to his senses.

"How is – " the question died on his lips.

The surgeon took one keen glance, held the lamp closer, and then raised it again.

"Is he going, sir?"

"Going? he's gone!"

The words were followed by an awful silence; then, for an instant, the yellow gleam of the lamp tell upon the soldier's face.

"Come, come, my lad!" said the medical officer kindly, "we did what we could for him, but it was hopeless from the first. Be thankful that you've got a whole skin yourself. You'd better rejoin your company."

The sky was paling with the first indications of the coming dawn. The men were standing to their arms, and Jack hurried away to take his place in the ranks, hiding his grief as best he could from the eyes of his comrades. Then as he turned to look once more towards the spot whence he had come, he saw, away across the river, the flush of rosy light brighten in the east, and all unbidden there came back to his memory the words of Queen Mab's hymn. The sun rose with a red glare, scattering the mist and sending a glow of warmth across the desert; and once more the old, sweet melody was sounding in his heart, while all around seemed telling of hopes fulfilled and sorrows vanquished when

 
"Morning's joy shall end the night of weeping."
 

CHAPTER XXI.
"WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME AGAIN!"

"It touched the tin soldier so much to see her that he almost wept tin tears, but he kept them back. He looked at her, and they both remained silent." – The Brave Tin Soldier.

It was a hot, still afternoon in August. The birds were silent, hardly a leaf stirred, and everything seemed to have dozed off to sleep in the quiet sunshine. Old Ned Brown, the cobbler, and general "handy-man" of the village, who, in days gone by, had often bound bats and done other odd jobs for "Miss Fenleigh's young nevies," laid down his awl, and gazed out of the window of his dingy little shop.

A soldier was walking slowly down the road. His boots were covered with dust, and on the breast of his red coat glittered the Egyptian medal and the Khedive's Cross.

"That must be Widow Crouch's son," said Ned to himself. "I heard he was back from the war. Maybe he'll know summat about the young gen'leman who used to come and stay up at the house yonder, and who, they say, was killed. Ah, yes! I remember him well – a nice, pleasant-spoken young chap! Dear me, dear me! sad work, sad work!" With a shake of his head, the old man once more picked up the shoe he was mending, still muttering to himself, "Yes, I remember him – sad work, sad work!"

The soldier strode on. His thoughts also were busy with memories of the past. In one sense he was not alone; for before him, in fancy, walked a boy – a rather surly, uncared-for looking young dog, with hands in his pockets, coat thrown open, and Cricket cap perched on the back of his head, as though in open defiance of the rain that was falling. The road had been damp and dismal then; to-day it was dry and dusty; but the heart of the man who trod it was no lighter than it had been that evening ten years ago.

The old cobbler had been mistaken. It was not Joe Crouch, but Jack Fenleigh, who had just passed the window of the little shop. He was thinking of the first time he had come to Brenlands at the commencement of the summer holidays, after having been kept back on the breaking-up day as a punishment for sending a pillow through the glass ventilator of the Long Dormitory.

"I didn't want to face her then," he said to himself, switching the dust off his trousers with his cane. "And yet, how kind she was! Never mind! she won't know me now. Valentine promised he wouldn't write, and he never broke his word."

Jack had walked from Melchester. More than once in the course of the journey he had hesitated, and thought of turning back; but the sacredness of the promise made to a dying man had compelled him to go forward.

He turned the corner, and slackened his pace as he saw before him the old house nestling among the trees. There was no board with TO LET printed on it, such as usually, in story-books, greets the eye of the returning wanderer. The place was just the same as it always had been; and the very fact of its being unchanged appealed to his feelings in a manner which it would be impossible to describe. The white front gate, whose hinges had been so often tried by its being transformed into a sort of merry-go-round; the clumps of laurel bushes which had afforded such good hiding-places in games of "I spy;" even the long-suffering little brass weathercock above the stable roof, which had served as a mark for catapult shooting, – these, and a hundred other objects on which his eyes rested, recalled memories which softened his heart, and brought back more vividly than ever the recollection of that faithful friend, whose last request he was about to fulfil.

"I must do it," he muttered, feeling in his pocket for the ring; "I promised him I would."

He pushed open the gate, and walked almost on tiptoe down the path, casting anxious glances at the windows. To his great relief it was not Jane who opened the door, but a new servant.

"Is Miss Fenleigh in?" he stammered. "Will you tell her a – a private soldier has brought her something from an officer who died in Egypt?"

The girl showed him into the old, quiet parlour (as if he could not have found the way thither himself), and there left him. It was very still. Nothing broke the silence but the sleepy tick of the clock, and the sound of some one (Jakes, perhaps) raking gravel on the garden path. Everything was unaltered. There was the little bust of Minerva that Barbara had once adorned with a paper bonnet; the fretsaw bookcase that the two boys had made at school; and the quaint little glass-fronted cupboard, let into the panelling, from which the watch had been stolen. In the years that had passed, only one thing in the room had changed, and that was the tall figure in uniform standing on the hearthrug.

He turned to look at himself in the glass. The dark moustache, bronzed skin, red tunic with its white collar and badges of the "royal tiger;" all these things had never been reflected there before, and for the twentieth time during the last half-hour he sought to reassure himself with the thought that his disguise was complete. "She'll never recognize me!" he muttered. "It's all right." Then the door opened, and for an instant his heart seemed to stop beating.

The same easy dignity and graciousness of manner, the same sweet womanly face, and the same depths of love and ready sympathy in her clear, calm eyes. She was dressed in mourning, and at her throat was the brooch containing the locks of the children's hair. Jack noticed it at once, and saw, too, that the little silver locket still had its place among the gold trinkets on her watch chain; and the sight of it very nearly brought him down upon his knees at her feet.

She seemed smaller than ever, and now, standing in front of him, her upturned face was about on a level with the medals on his breast.

What was it made his chest heave and his lips tremble as he encountered her gaze? However foolish and headstrong he might have been in the past, he knew he had only to declare himself and it would all be forgotten and forgiven. "You may doubt us," Valentine had said, "but we have never lost faith in you." Yes, that was it; she loved her ugly duckling, believing even now that, in spite of outward appearances, it would one day turn into a swan. But the years had slipped away, and the change had never taken place. She might hope that it had, and it was best that she should never know the truth.

With a set face he began to speak.

"I've lately returned from Egypt, and saw there your nephew, Lieutenant Fenleigh, of the – sex Regiment."

He tried to say "ma'am," but even at that moment it seemed too great a mockery, and the word choked him.

"I was with him when he died on the banks of the Nile. He asked me to bring you this, and to give it to you with my own hands."

She took the ring, but without moving her eyes from the speaker's face.

"He asked me to tell you that he remembered you always."

The voice grew husky, and the lady drew a little closer, perhaps to hear more plainly what was said.

"And to say that he carried his – his love for you with him down into the grave."

With a great effort Jack finished the message. The words had brought back a flood of vivid recollections of that dreadful night, and his eyes were filled with blinding tears. He turned to brush them away, and as he did so he felt Queen Mab's arms meet round his neck.

"You dear old boy! don't you think I know you? Don't you think I knew you as soon as you came inside the gate?"

He made some attempt to reply, uttered a broken word or two, and then turned away his head; but she, standing on tiptoe, drew it down lower and lower, until at length it rested on her shoulder.

And so the ugly duckling ended his wanderings.

No autumn frosts or winter snows could ever have fallen on that garden, for here were the same flowers, and fruit, and ferns as had bloomed and ripened that last August holiday seven years ago. So, at least, thought Jack, as he and his aunt walked together along the paths.

"Did he write from Egypt to tell you about me?"

"No; but I've always been expecting you. I knew you'd come back some time."

"I didn't think you'd recognize me."

"Valentine knew I should. Don't you see it was you he sent home to me, and not the ring?"

Jack was silent. Everything that his eye rested upon reminded him of that faithful, boyish friendship, and his lip quivered.

Queen Mab noticed it, and changed the subject.

"I wonder what Jakes will think to see me walking about arm-in-arm with a soldier," she said gaily. "Never mind, I must make the most of it while it lasts. I'm afraid I shan't have many more opportunities of 'keeping company' with a red-coat."

"How d'you mean?" he asked, with an uneasy, downward glance at his uniform. "My time isn't up for nearly three years; and I know I ought not to come here in this rig-out."

"Don't talk nonsense," she answered. "You're a pretty soldier to be ashamed of your cloth. Isn't it possible for a man to do his duty unless he has a pair of epaulettes on his shoulders? Can't he do it under any kind of coat? Come now," she added, shaking his arm, and looking up into his face with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "don't you think, for the matter of that, a man could be a hero in his shirt sleeves?"

"Yes," answered Jack, laughing.

"Oh, you do! I'm glad you've come to that conclusion at last."

"Why?"

"Why? because I think you'll soon have to give us a practical illustration of how a man can distinguish himself by being capable and trustworthy, even in plain clothes. That opens up a subject that I have a lot to tell you about. Have you heard that your father and your Uncle John are friends again?"

"Yes; Val said something about it."

"You haven't heard," she continued quietly, "that before the second battle Valentine made a will, and gave it to a friend to be sent home in case he was killed. It was more in the form of a long letter, roughly written on the leaves of a pocket-book. A great deal of it was about you. He did not break his promise to you, and say actually that he had seen you, and where you were; but he assured us that he knew you had not gone to the bad, but were living an honest life, and that before long we should see you again. Then he begged his father, as a last request, to do something for you, and to treat you as his own son. Your uncle was over the other day. He is very anxious to carry out Valentine's wishes, and would like to take you into his own business, with a view to an ultimate partnership."

"It's awfully good of him," murmured Jack huskily.

"Well, that's what he intends to do. But come, it's time I put in the tea."

"It's time I went," he murmured.

"Time you went? What nonsense! You say you've got a week's furlough, and that you left your things at the Black Horse. Well, I'm just going to send Jakes to fetch them. Why, I quite forgot to tell you that little Bar was staying here."

The person who had just stepped out from the open French window on to the lawn was certainly no longer little, but a tall, graceful young lady. There was, however, still some trace in her roguish mouth and dancing eyes of the smaller Barbara who had wrought such havoc among her enemies by firing six peas at a time instead of two.

Jack had never before been frightened at Bar, of all people in the world; but now, if Queen Mab had not still retained her hold of his arm, he might very likely have bolted into the shrubbery.

The girl advanced slowly across the lawn, casting inquiring glances, first at the red coat and medals, and then at the bronzed face of the stranger. Then suddenly her mouth opened, and she quickened her pace to a run.

"Oh, you rascal!" she cried. "It's Jack!"

That was all the speech-making Barbara thought necessary in welcoming the returning prodigal; and not caring a straw for bars and ribbons, pipeclay, and "royal tigers," she embraced him in the same hearty manner as she had always done when they met at the commencement of bygone summer holidays.

The dainty tea-table was a great change after the barrack-room. The pretty china cups seemed wonderfully small and fragile compared with the familiar basin; and once Jack found himself absent-mindedly stuffing his serviette into his sleeve, under the impression that it was his handkerchief.

"Why, when was the last time you had tea here?" asked Barbara. "It must have been that summer when Raymond – " She stopped short, but the last word instantly brought to Jack's mind the recollection of that evening when Fosberton had charged him with being a thief.

"By-the-bye," he exclaimed, "I forgot to tell you – I've found the watch."

"Yes, I know," answered Queen Mab quietly. "Valentine gave a full account of it in his letter."

Jack was just going to launch out into a long and forcible tirade on the subject of the theft, but his cousin signed to him across the table to let the matter drop.

"Aunt has been in such a dreadful way about it," she explained afterwards. "Only she and ourselves know about it. She doesn't like even to have Raymond's name mentioned. He has turned out a thorough scamp, and has given Uncle Fosberton no end of trouble. Father happened to know the friends of that officer who was killed, and when his things were sent home the watch was returned; so it's back again now in the same old place. Aunt has never told any one, not even Raymond himself, as she doesn't want to bring fresh trouble on his parents."

Later on in the evening, as they sat together in the old, panelled parlour in the soft light of the shaded lamp, the talk turned naturally and sweetly on Valentine – on all that he used to say and do; and Jack told as best he could the story of the desert march, and of that last sad parting on the river's brink. After he had finished, there was a silence; then Barbara picked up the piece of work she had laid down.

"So you didn't find war quite such a jolly thing as you used to think it would be?" she said, looking across at him with a tearful smile.

"No," he answered thoughtfully. "I suppose things that you have long set your mind on seldom turn out exactly what you want and expect them to be. I'm glad I saw active service, and I'd go through it all again a hundred times for the sake of having been with Valentine when he died; though it was little I could do for him, more than to say good-bye."

Queen Mab rose from her chair, and stooped over the speaker to wish him good-night.

"Never mind," she said softly. "I'm glad to think of both my boys that their warfare is accomplished!"