He extended his booted legs, propped his back against a pillar, and continued smoking carefully and economically to save his fragments of Virginia leaf, deeply absorbed in retrospection.

For the first time he was now certain of the change which time, circumstance, and environment had wrought in himself; he was curiously conscious of the silent growth of a germ which, one day, must become a dictatorial and arbitrary habit—­the habit of right thinking.  The habit of duty, independent of circumstances, had slowly grown with his military training; mind and body had learned automatically to obey; mind and body now definitely recognised the importance of obedience, were learning to desire it, had begun to take an obscure sort of pride in it.  Mind and body were already subservient to discipline.  How was it with his other self.

In the human soul there is seldom any real perplexity.  Only the body reasons; the soul knows.  He knew this now.  He knew, too, that there is a greater drill-master than that which was now disciplining his mind and body—­the spiritual will—­that there is a higher sentiment than the awakened instinct of mental and physical obedience—­the occult loyalty of the spirit.  And, within him, something was now awaking out of night, slowly changing him, soul and body.

As he sat there, tranquil, pondering, there came a shadowy figure, moving leisurely under the lighted windows of the hospital, directly toward him—­a man swinging a lantern low above the grass—­and halted beside him in a yellow shaft of light,

“Berkley,” he said pleasantly; then, to identify himself, lifted the lantern to a level with his face.

“Dr. Benton!”

“Surely—­surely.  I come from Paigecourt.  I left Mrs. Craig and Stephen about five o’clock; I have just left Miss Lynden on duty.  May I sit here beside you, Phil?  And, in the first place, how are you, old fellow?”

“Perfectly well, doctor. . . .  I am glad to see you. . . .  It is pleasant to see you. . . .  I am well; I really am.  You are, too; I can see that. . . .  I want to shake hands with you again—­to wish you happiness,” he added in a low voice.  “Will you accept my warmest wishes, Dr. Benton?”

They exchanged a hard, brief grip.

“I know what you mean.  Thank you, Phil. . . .  I am very happy; I mean that she shall be.  Always.”

Berkley said:  “There are few people I really care for.  She is among the few.”

“I have believed so. . . .  She cares, deeply, for you. . . .  She is right.” . . .  He paused and glanced over his shoulder at the crimson horizon.  “What was that shelling about?  The gun-boats were firing, too.”

“I haven’t any idea.  Something is on fire, evidently.  I hope it is not Paigecourt.”

“God forbid!”

The doctor looked hard at the fiery sky, but said nothing more.

“How is Stephen?” asked the younger man earnestly.