glaring car filled with close air and smoke and smelling lamps. I
seated myself beside a window and leaned far out into the night, so
that the wind of the rushing train beat in my face.

And in a little time the clanking car-wheels seemed to speak to me,
beating out the words brazenly so that I thought everyone in the car
must hear them.

"Turn again, turn again, Royal Macklin," they seemed to say to me.
"She loves you, Royal Macklin, she loves you, she loves you."

And I thought of Dick Whittington when the Bow bells called to him, as
he paused in the country lane to look lack at the smoky roof of
London, and they had offered him so little, while for me the words
seemed to promise the proudest place a man could hold. And I imagined
myself still at home, working by day in some New York office and
coming back by night to find Beatrice at the station waiting for me,
always in a white dress, and with her brown hair glowing in the light
of the lamps. And I pictured us taking long walks together above the
Hudson, and quiet, happy evenings by the fire-side. But the rhythm of
the car-wheels altered, and from "She loves you, she loves you," the
refrain now came brokenly and fiercely, like the reports of muskets
fired in hate and fear, and mixed with their roar and rattle I seemed
to distinguish words of command in a foreign tongue, and the groans of
men wounded and dying. And I saw, rising above great jungles and
noisome swamps, a long mountain-range piercing a burning, naked sky;
and in a pass in the mountains a group of my own countrymen, ragged
and worn and with eyes lit with fever, waving a strange flag, and
beset on every side by dark-faced soldiers, and I saw my own face
among them, hollow-cheeked and tanned, with my head bandaged in a