but he had not thought to remove it--leaning upon the clumsy groins and pitying this poor victim of the war he had helped to make. "Poor lad!" he said, "poor lad! A child we blunderers sent to death! Do look at the quiet beauty of that face, that body--to be flung aside like this!"
(I remember that near this dead man's hand a stranded star-fish writhed its slowly feeling limbs, struggling back towards the sea. It left grooved traces in the sand.)
"There must be no more of this," panted Melmount, leaning on my shoulder, "no more of this. . . ."
But most I recall Melmount as he talked a little later, sitting upon a great chalk boulder with the sunlight on his big, perspiration-dewed face. He made his resolves. "We must end war," he said, in that full whisper of his; "it is stupidity. With so many people able to read and think--even as it is--there is no need of anything of the sort. Gods! What have we rulers been at? . . . Drowning like people in a stifling room, too dull and sleepy and too base towards each other for anyone to get up and open the window. What haven't we been at?"
A great powerful figure he sits there still in my memory, perplexed and astonished at himself and all things. "We must change all this," he repeated, and threw out his broad
