The saint wandered away from the shore. It was a flat, round island whence rose in the centre a conical mountain capped with clouds. The rain was falling incessantly 鈥� a gentle, soft rain which caused the simple saint to exclaim in great delight: This is the island of tears, the island of contrition!鈥�

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Civilisation has done its little best by our sensibilities for whose growth it is responsible. It has managed to remove the sights and sounds of battlefields away from our doorsteps. But it cannot be expected to achieve the feat always and under every variety of circumstance. Some day it must fail, and we shall have then a wealth of appallingly unpleasant sensations brought home to us with painful intimacy. It is not absurd to suppose that whatever war comes to us next it will not be a distant war waged by Russia either beyond the Amur or beyond the Oxus.

To begin at the end, I will say that the landing鈥� surprised me by a slight and very characteristically dead鈥� sort of shock.

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I postulated that it should be none of those ten minutes in the air鈥� affairs. I wanted a real business flight. Commander O. assured me that I would get awfully bored,鈥� but I declared that I was willing to take that risk. Very well,鈥� he said. Eleven o鈥檆lock to-morrow. Don鈥檛 be late.鈥�