"Well," he said finally, "we've served our turn. The battalion is going
Home!"
Duncannon gave a great start.
"Already?"
"After two years' service," the other reminded him grimly.
Duncannon fell silent, considering, the matter with bent brows.
"Who succeeds us?" he asked at length.
Herne shrugged his shoulders.
"You don't know?" There was sudden, sharp anxiety in Duncannon's voice.
He got off the table with a jerk. "You must know," he said.
Herne sat motionless, but he no longer looked the other in the face.
"You've taught 'em to fight," he said slowly. "They are men enough to
look after themselves now."
"What?" Duncannon flung the word with violence. He took a single stride
forward, standing over Herne in an attitude that was almost menacing.
His hands were clenched. "What?" he said again.
Herne leaned back, and felt for his cigarette-case.
"Take it easy, old chap!" he said. "It was bound to come, you know. It
was never meant to be more than a temporary occupation among these
friendlies. They have been useful to us, I admit. But we can't fight
their battles for them for ever. It's time for them to stand on their
own legs.
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