"You are joking, man! Haven't you read Kitchener's call? He wants half a million men. It's said he'll need a million before long. You can't stand out. No decent fellow can. You don't mean it!"

"Yes, I mean it."

"But why?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't make you understand."

"No, I don't think you could," and there was a sneer in George

Tresize's voice.

It happened at that moment that the girls had gone into the house, and had not heard the conversation, but the half-dozen young men who were there looked at Bob as though he were a kind of reptile.

"I say, Bob," said Dick Tresize, who had been always his close friend, "you can't mean it! You are joking. Have-have you read the papers? Have you read what led up to our being in it? Have you seen the white paper?"

"Yes, I've read everything."

"Then you must know that the war is right."

"No war is right," was Bob's answer. "It's opposed to every law, human and divine. How can a fellow who is trying to be a-a Christian," his voice trembled as he spoke, "deliberately enlist for the purpose of killing his fellow-man? If I have a quarrel with a man, and I murder him, I am guilty of the most terrible deed a man can be guilty of. If I did it, I should be branded with the mark of Cain, and you would shudder at the mention of my name. A nation is a combination of individuals, and if nations in order to settle their quarrel go to war, and murder, not by ones, but by thousands, does it cease to be the crime of Cain? Does it cease to be murder?"

"Yes, of course it does," replied a young fellow, named Poldhu, who had arranged to leave for his regiment on the following morning.

"How?"

Poldhu was silent for a moment, then he cried out, "Is a hangman a murderer, for hanging a devil? Is a judge a murderer for condemning a fellow like Crippen to death?"

"And you mean to say you are going to funk it?" There was something ominous in Dick Tresize's voice.

"I am not going to enlist."

"I say, you fellows," said Dick, looking towards the others, "the climate's not healthy here. What do you say to a stroll?"

Without a word each one walked away, leaving Bob alone. They had gone only a few steps when there was a sound of many voices at the front door, and a bevy of girls appeared in their light summer dresses. A few seconds later the girls and boys were talking eagerly together, and before long were casting furtive looks towards Bob, who, miserable beyond words, sat watching them.

"No," he heard one say, "I'm not going to play with him."

"Oh, but there's a mistake somewhere! He's all right."

"Is he? Then what did he mean by--"

Bob got up and walked to the other end of the lawn; he had been playing the part of an eavesdropper in spite of himself. He knew what they were talking about-knew that in the future he would be treated as a pariah. They were good fellows, all of them. Clean-minded, healthy young Englishmen. Tom Poldhu, Dick and George Tresize, Harry Lorrimer, and the others were among the best products of English public schools, and although they had their failings, each had his code of honour which is generally held sacred by the class to which he belonged. All of them, too, had been reared in a military atmosphere. Most of them, I imagine, would, with a certain amount of reservation, drink to the old toast, "My country. In all her relations with other nations, may she be in the right. But right or wrong, my country." They did not trouble about the deeper ethics of international quarrels. It was enough for them to know that England was in danger; for them, forgetful of everything else, to offer their lives, if need be, for the land of their birth.

They could not understand Bob. They simply could not see from his point of view. Only one thing was plain to them. Their country was at war. The King's soldiers were going to defend their nation's word of honour, and to crush a Power, which they had no doubt meant to rob England of her glory, and conquer her. Beyond that they troubled little. Neither of them understood much about the cause of the trouble. But that did not matter. They had heard the call, "Your King and Country need you," and that was enough. To remain quietly at home after that was the act of a poltroon and a coward.

"Bob, are you there?"

He had gone from the lawn into a shrubbery, where he was completely hidden. He felt as though he must get out of the sight of every one.

It was Nancy's voice, and every nerve in his body thrilled as he heard it. Yes, Nancy would understand him; he could make everything plain to her.

"Yes, Nancy." He tried to speak cheerfully, but his heart was like lead.

"Bob," and there was a tone in her voice which he had never heard before. "What Dick has been telling us isn't true, is it?"

She had reached his side by this time, and, in spite of her pallor, and the peculiar light in her eyes, he had never seen her look so beautiful.

"What has he been telling you?" he asked, feeling ashamed of himself for asking the question. He knew quite well.

"That-all the rest of them have offered themselves for their country, and you-you--"

"Let me explain, Nancy," he cried eagerly. "Let me tell you why I can't--"

"I don't want any explanations," and there was anger in her voice. "Lord Kitchener has called for volunteers. He has asked for half a million men, so that we may stand by our word of honour, and save our country. What I want to know is, are you going to play the coward?"

"You know my principles, Nancy. You know what we said to each other down at Gurnard's Head, and--"

"I don't want to hear anything more about that," she interrupted impatiently. "I want to know what you are going to do. Please answer me."

She had ceased to be pale now, although her lips quivered and her hands trembled. A pink spot burnt on each cheek, and her eyes burned like fire. Bob knew that she would not be satisfied with subterfuges, or contented with evasions. Neither, indeed, did he wish to shelter himself behind them.

"I'm going to do nothing," he replied. "That is I'm going to carry out the plan we agreed on. Look here, Nancy--"

But again she interrupted him. She was angry beyond words, but she kept herself in check.

"That's all I wanted to know. Thank you. We are not going to play tennis for a little while. We are all going for a walk. Good afternoon."

"You mean that you do not wish me to go with you."

"I do not think you-you would enjoy coming. You see the others--"

She did not complete the sentence, but hurried away, leaving him alone.

Bob felt as though the heavens had become black. He had expected to be misunderstood, sneered at, despised; but he had never dreamed that Nancy would turn from him like this. He knew she hated war. He remembered her telling him about her eldest brother who had been killed in the Boer War, and how it had darkened her home, and added years to her father's life. She had encouraged him in the career he had marked out too; she had agreed with him that the work he had at heart was the noblest any man could do. As a consequence, he thought she would understand him, sympathise with him.

Bob had not come to his decision carelessly, or with a light heart. He had gone over the ground inch by inch. Yes, England was in the right. He did not believe that Germany had planned the war, and he blamed the Czar as much as he blamed the Kaiser. No doubt Germany had broken treaties. It was wrong for her to invade Luxemburg, and then to send her ultimatum to Belgium, after she had been a party to the treaty to maintain Belgium's integrity and neutrality. Of course, the King of the Belgians had made a strong case when he had called upon England to protect her.

But war!

He thought of what it meant, for his father's teaching and influence were not forgotten. Generations of Quaker influence and blood were not without effect. War was born in hell. It was an act of savagery, and not of Christian nations. He pictured the awful carnage, the indescribable butchery, the untold horror which were entailed. He saw hordes of men fighting like devils; realised the lust for blood which was ever the concomitant of war. Besides, they settled nothing. Wars always bred wars, one always sowed the seeds of another. When this bloody welter came to an end, what then? After the nation's wealth had been wasted, after tens of thousands of the most promising lives had been sacrificed, after innumerable homes had been laid waste, after all the agony, what then? Would we be any nearer justice? Would wrong be righted, and love take the place of hatred?

But this was not all, neither did it touch the depths of the question. War, ghastly as it was, might superficially be justified. More than once, when he thought of England's plighted word to defend a small, neighbouring state, when he heard of tens of thousands of England's most stalwart sons leaving home and country, not for aggrandisement, nor gain of any sort, but out of desire to keep England's plighted word, to maintain her honour unsullied, and defend the weak, he felt that he must cast everything aside, and offer himself for the fray. But then he had called himself a Christian, he believed in the teaching of the Prince of Peace. How could a man, believing in the lessons of the Sermon on the Mount, accepting the dictum, "Bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you," do his utmost to murder men who believed in the same Lord as he did?

No, no, it would not do. If Christianity were right, war was wrong. Either Christianity was a foolish thing, an impossible dream, and all our profession of it so much empty cant, or war was something which every Christian should turn from with loathing and horror.

Bob had made no outward profession of Christianity. He had been so far influenced by the spirit of the age, that he seldom spoke about religion, and perhaps many would have regarded him as by no means an exemplary Christian. Nevertheless, deep down in his life was a reverence for Christ and His words. Humanly speaking, the most potent influence in his life was his dead father. Bob, although he had never been inside a Friends' Meeting House, and was not in any way regarded as a member of their community, was one at heart. Either Christ's teaching must be taken to mean what it said, or it was of no value; and Bob took it seriously. Hitherto, it had not clashed with what people had expected of him; but now it seemed to him he must either give up the faith his father had held, or he must hold aloof from this war, and fight for peace.

For days he had seen the trend of affairs, and what they would lead to, and although he had said nothing to any one, he had decided upon the course of his life. Thus it was, when at the tennis party the other men had asked him what he was going to do, he told them.

But he had never dreamed that Nancy would turn from him, never imagined that his decision would separate them. Yes, that was what it meant. If he held fast to his principles, then Nancy was lost to him.

He heard shouts of laughter near by. Those fellows had no doubts, no struggles. They saw the way of duty clearly, and were going to follow it, while he must go in the opposite direction, and thereby lose-oh God, he could not bear it!

He felt himself a pariah. He was no longer wanted, his presence would no longer be tolerated. Even his friend, Dick Tresize, would turn his back on him if he attempted to join him.

"I was tempted to bring my evening clothes, and spend the evening as the Admiral asked me," he reflected; "I'm glad I didn't. I should be frozen out of the house."

He made his way through the gardens towards the garage, where he had left his car; on his way he came across an old gardener, whom he had known for years.

"Well, Master Bob, we be in for a 'ot job."

"I'm afraid we are, Tonkin."

"I wish I was twenty 'ear younger. I'd be off like a shot."

"Where, Tonkin?"

"Off to fight they Germans, to be sure. Why, no young chap worthy of the naame caan't stay 'ome, tha's my veelin'. Tell 'ee wot, they Germans 'ave bin jillus o' we for 'ears, and tes a put-up job. They do 'ate we, and main to wipe us off the faace of the globe. I d' 'ear that the Kaiser ev got eight millyen sodgers. Every able-bodied man 'ave bin trained for a sodger, jist to carry out that ould Kaiser's plans. A cantin' old 'ippycrit, tha's wot 'ee es. But we bean't fear'd ov'm, Maaster Bob. One Englishman es wuth five Germans, 'cos every Englishman es a volunteer, an' a free man. Aw I do wish I wos twenty 'ear younger. Of course you'll be off with the rest of the young gen'lemen?"

But Bob did not reply. He did not want to enter into an argument with the plain-spoken old Cornishman.

When he arrived home, he found that his mother had gone out, and would not return till dinner-time. He was glad for this. He did not want to explain to her why he had come home so early. He felt he could not do so. Besides, her absence gave him an opportunity to think out the whole question again.

Yes, his choice was plain enough. Nancy, the daughter of an English sailor, the child of many generations of fighters, had been carried away by the tide of feeling that swept over the country. Having fighting blood in her veins, she could not understand his feelings. To her it was the duty, the sacred duty, of every healthy young Englishman to defend his country, and none but shirkers, cowards, would stay behind. Therefore, if he stood by his principles, she would cast him off with scorn and contempt. If he continued to hold by what he regarded as the foundation of the teachings of the Prince of Peace, he would lose the girl who was as dear to him as his own life.

Oh, how he longed to join the fray! Pride of race, and pride in the history of that race surged up within him. He, too, had fighting blood in his veins, and he longed to share in the fight. He did not fear death. Once accept the theory of war as right, and death on the battlefield, especially in such a cause, would be glorious. He was young too, and his blood ran warm. What nobler cause could there be than to defend a small people, and to crush the fighting hordes of the Kaiser? And besides all that, there was Nancy. He had been dreaming love's young dream, he had been living in the land of bliss, he loved with a pure, devoted love the fairest girl in the county.

And he could keep her love! From signs which seemed to him infallible, he judged that the Admiral during the last few days had learnt his secret, and had not discouraged him from visiting the house, while Nancy had hinted to him that the time was nearly ripe for him to approach her father, and ask for his consent to their engagement.

But how could he? There were things in the world deeper, more sacred, even than love for a woman-principle, conscience, faith. Could he sacrifice these? Could he trample on the Cross of Christ, in order to embrace the sword, and hold to his heart the woman he loved?

He looked towards the mantelpiece, and saw the picture of his father, whom he had idealised as the noblest man who ever lived. He remembered his teaching, remembered that to him the true man was he who sacrificed everything to principle, to conscience. He looked around among the many books, and noted those his father loved. He took from the table a New Testament, and instinctively turned to the Sermon on the Mount.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of

God."

"Ye have heard it hath been said, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. But I say unto you, that ye resist not evil, but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also."

And so on and on. How could a man believing in this, grasp the sword to take away the lives of others. The Germans were Christians just as we were; Germany was the home of the Reformation, the home of religious liberty. Was it not Luther who, standing before the greatest tribunal the world had ever known, and having to choose between conscience and death, cried out:

"It is neither safe nor wise for any man to do aught against his own conscience. Here stand I; I can do no other, God help me!"?

No, no, he simply could not. Though he were boycotted, scorned, held up to derision, he could not change. He must be true to his conscience.

But Nancy!

Yes, he must lose Nancy, and the very thought of it made him groan in agony; but he must sacrifice his love rather than his Lord.

He heard his mother come in, and, although he dreaded her coming, he steeled his heart to tell her the truth.

She, too, was full of war news; it had been the common talk at the houses where she had called.

"Bob," she said; and her face was pale, her lips tremulous. "Bob, the thought of it is terrible; but you'll have to go. It is your duty-your country needs you."

She, too, had been fighting a hard battle. A battle between love for her only boy, fear for his safety, and what she believed her duty to her country. The struggle had been hard, but she had determined to make her sacrifice.

"No, I'm not going, mother."

"What, you are going to allow those Germans to crush France and Belgium, and finally conquer and crush us, and never lift a hand in defence?"

Bob was silent.

"You can't mean it, my dear. It's like tearing my heartstrings out to let you go, but you must. I know; you are thinking of me; but I shall be all right. You must do your duty."

"Would he have me go?" and Bob nodded towards his father's picture.

"Your father was a Quaker," she said.

"He was a Christian," and Bob's voice was very low. "That was why he hated war, and denounced it. That is why I am not going to fight."

"Then every brave, true Englishman will despise you."

"That's nothing," replied Bob; and his voice sounded as though he were weary.

"And what of Nancy?"

"Yes, what of her?"

"I know what she feels, I know that--"

"Mother," Bob interrupted, "I can't bear any more just now; and it's no use talking, my mind's made up."

He left the room as he spoke, and soon after, left the house. He did not have any dinner that night, but spent hours tramping the wild moors at the back of the house. The next day he was in misery. Again and again he reviewed the situation, but he could not change. He could not offer himself to be a legalised murderer, for that was how his country's call appealed to him. It was a battle between Calvary and Militarism, and he could not take the side of Militarism.

When he reached the house in the evening, after a long, lonely walk, his mother pointed to a letter lying on the table.

"It's from Admiral Tresize," he said, after he had read it. "He wants me to go up there to dinner, or as soon afterwards as possible."

"You'll go, of course," said the mother eagerly.

"Yes, I'll go. Of course it is too late for me to get there in time for dinner, but I'll go directly afterwards."

"That's right."

An hour later Bob got out his car, and drove towards Penwennack, with a sad heart. He dreaded what he felt sure was coming, and his heart beat wildly with the hope that he might perhaps see Nancy, and make her understand.