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tissue and muscle, cleaving to the very heart of the brittle bone. The poor frame held little blood and, one could have said, but little strength or desire to live. But this was belied by the furious struggle he made against the pungent fumes of the anaesthetic. He did not wish to sleep, for how then could he fight against the terror He would rather suffer pain, to know that life was yet his. They were trying to make him sleep, he knew that, as he lay powerless, the dread spectre might take him into its icy grasp and tear asunder spirit from body. And yet why should he fight ? What was life to mean-a chaos of pain and jarring hurt, with nerves and brain that ached for rest from the cease- less agony, with a fevered thirst that nothing might satiate and a hunger of soul that craved for an empty stillness ? So the man grew quiet. His face wore the pallor of a corpse, his limbs set rigid, his breast ceased to heave. He slept the sleep that is near to death, but was not yet dead, for the spectre's eyes gleamed hungrily, and his hands knew no rest in their cycle of frenzied movement. And then the white-robed surgeon at the side took knife and scalpel and made sharp, deep incisions into the quivering flesh and the red blood dropped slowly away from the clean-cut edges of the wounds. He probed the wounds deep, forcing the gashes open till the flesh appeared, all white from bloodlessness. Surely now the man must die Yet the tense, hungry glare in the eyes of the phantom Death never wavered. Too often in the theatre before his eyes had the spirit of life been forced to remain in the wrecked, maimed bodies that scarce could shelter it. Too often had his allies, the things of his own creation, the cruel knives and dread opiates been (/ W.J.G., ar fwrdd Hong adeg rhyfeJ) A rodiwn-ni eto fyth Hiraethog y grug a'r eithin, A gerddwn-ni yn y niwl, pan fo gorddu yno nos? A wyliwn-ni eto haul, liw tin, yn gloewi'n y tyle, A welwn-ni liwiau di-rif gan loewne leuad ar ros? Yno, a gasglwn-ni gnau hyd lwyni ag osglau'n gonewid Owmal a gwrid yr haf am lewyg yr hydre hardd? Chwefror, 1916. treacherously used to cheat him of his prey. Too often had the prayer in the soul of the white-robed man, the defiance in his eyes and the firm set of his lips proved ominous of his disappointment. Yet the man's skill at times had failed, and then had come the moments of his triumph, when he had caught the weak, fluttering life to his ice-cold breast and crushed it, benumbed, to nothingness. And at those times he loved to see the chill sweat on the surgeon's brow, the sad, far look in his eyes, the quick shudder of his strong form, the trembling of his hands. Ah! these things were worth the waiting. The long period of suspense was drawing to an end. The operation was over, and with caught breath the surgeon leaned over the man's form, listening to the heart beats and the breath-sounds. Presently he rose, and in his eyes there could be seen a faint gleam of joy, and on his lips a quiet smile. "That will do. Carry him out. He will live," he said. But before the words were spoken Death had already known. The fierce red-lit eyes narrowed into scarce opened slits, from which there could yet be seen a flashing flame of hate. His body writhed in horrible fashion twice, and he threw his arms akimbo, catching at the empty air. Then he became quiet, as in despair. Slowly, with his smile of absolute self-confidence the surgeon left the room, passing, as though unaware of its presence, within reach of the nerveless, motion- less arms of the spirit, whose passion of hunger he fought to prolong, but could not destroy before which he knew that he, as all men, must finally bow and surrender. ATGOF Yno, a glywn-ni sain, unig lef fain y gylfinir, A glywn-ni y suo dwfn o galon y nos a dardd ? Neu eto a ddown-ni yn ol at dderwgoed Llanddeiniolen, A welwn-ni Fenai mwy fel ewyn o fin y mdr ? 0, hanner fy enaid i, a gawn-ni ryw hafan dawel, A dwys, heb iddi ystaen, i gofio'n dihysbydd ystor ? T.G.J.