real or unreal, he would finish it.  If he was a phantom and Kingswood a mirage, the phantom would reach the mirage or sink senseless into astral mud.  He had Colonel Hullocher in mind, and, quite illogically, he envisaged the Colonel as a reality.  Often he had heard of the ways of the Army, and had scarcely credited the tales told and printed.  Well, he now credited them.  Was it conceivable that that madman of a Colonel had packed him, George, off on such a wild and idiotic errand in the middle of the night, merely out of caprice?  Were such doings—­

He faintly heard voices through the rain, and the horse started at this sign of life from the black, unknown world beyond the circle of lantern-light.  George was both frightened and puzzled.  He thought of ghosts and haunted moors.  Then he noticed a penumbra round about the form of what might be a small hillock to the left of the track.  He quitted the track, and cautiously edged his horse forward, having commendably obscured the lantern beneath his overcoat.  The farther side of the hillock had been tunnelled to a depth of perhaps three feet; a lantern suspended somehow in the roof showed the spade which had done the work; it also showed, within the cavity, the two girls who had accompanied the Brigade from Wimbledon, together with two soldiers.  The soldiers were rankers, but one of the girls talked with perfect correctness in a very refined voice; the other was silently eating.  Both were obviously tired to the limit of endurance, and very dirty and draggled.  The gay colours of their smart frocks had, however, survived the hardships of the day.  George was absolutely amazed by the spectacle.  The vagaries of autocratic Colonels were nothing when compared to this extravagance of human nature, this glimpse of the subterranean life of regiments, this triumphant and forlorn love-folly in the midst of the inclement, pitiless night.  And he was touched, too.  The glimmer of the lantern on the green and yellow of the short skirts half disclosed under the mackintoshes was at once pathetic and exciting.  The girl who had been eating gave a terrible scream; she had caught sight of the figure on horseback.  The horse shied violently and stood still.  George persuaded him back into the track and rode on, guessing that already he had become a genuine phantom for the self-absorbed group awakened out of its ecstasy by the mysterious vision of a nightrider.

Half a mile farther on he saw the red end of a cigarette swimming on the sea of darkness; his lantern had expired, and he had not yet tried to relight it.

“Hi there!” he cried.  “Who are you?”

The cigarette approached him, in a wavy movement, and a man’s figure was vaguely discerned.

“A.S.C. convoy, sir.”

“Where are you supposed to be going to?”

“No. 2 Battery, Second Brigade, sir.  Can’t find it, sir.  And we’ve got off the road.  The G.S. wagon fell into a hole and broke an axle, sir.”