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sometimes?’ asked Marco.
    ‘Yes. You will know how. You will remember the things about which silence is the order.’
    ‘I never forget them,’ said Marco. ‘I have been trying not to, for such a long time.’
    ‘You have succeeded well, Comrade!’ returned Loristan, from his writing table, to which he had gone and where he was turning over papers.
    A strong impulse overpowered the boy. He marched over to the table and stood very straight, making his soldierly young salute, his whole body glowing.
    ‘Father!’ he said, ‘you don’t know how I love you! I wish you were a general and I might die in battle for you. When I look at you, I long and long to do something for you a boy could not do. I would die of a thousand wounds rather than disobey you – or Samavia!’
    He seized Loristan’s hand, and knelt on one knee and kissed it. An English or American boy could not have done such a thing from unaffected natural impulse. But he was of warm Southern blood.
    ‘I took my oath of allegiance to you, Father, when I took it to Samavia. It seems as if you were Samavia, too,’ he said, and kissed his hand again.
    Loristan had turned toward him with one of the movements which were full of dignity and grace. Marco, looking up at him, felt that there was always a certain remote stateliness in him which made it seem quite natural that anyone should bend the knee and kiss his hand.
    A sudden great tenderness glowed in his father’s face as he raised the boy and put his hand on his shoulder.
    ‘Comrade,’ he said, ‘you don’t know how much I love you – and what reason there is that we should love each other! You don’t know how I have been watching you, and thanking God each year that here grew a man for Samavia. That I know you are – a
man
, though you have lived but twelve years. Twelve years may grow aman – or prove that a man will never grow, though a human thing he may remain for ninety years. This year may be full of strange things for both of us. We cannot know
what
I may have to ask you to do for me – and for Samavia. Perhaps such a thing as no twelve-year-old boy has ever done before.’
    ‘Every night and every morning,’ said Marco, ‘I shall pray that I may be called to do it, and that I may do it well.’
    ‘You will do it well, Comrade, if you are called. That I could make oath,’ Loristan answered him.
    The Squad had collected in the enclosure behind the church when Marco appeared at the arched end of the passage. The boys were drawn up with their rifles, but they all wore a rather dogged and sullen look. The explanation which darted into Marco’s mind was that this was because The Rat was in a bad humour. He sat crouched together on his platform biting his nails fiercely, his elbows on his updrawn knees, his face twisted into a hideous scowl. He did not look around, or even look up from the cracked flagstone of the pavement on which his eyes were fixed.
    Marco went forward with military step and stopped opposite to him with prompt salute.
    ‘Sorry to be late, sir,’ he said, as if he had been a private speaking to his colonel.
    ‘It’s ’im, Rat! ’E’s come, Rat!’ the Squad shouted. ‘Look at ’im!’
    But The Rat would not look, and did not even move.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ said Marco, with less ceremony than a private would have shown. ‘There’s no use in my coming here if you don’t want me.’
    ‘’E’s got a grouch on ’cos you’re late!’ called out the head of the line. ‘No doin’ nothin’ when ’e’s got a grouch on.’
    ‘I sha’n’t try to do anything,’ said Marco, his boy-face setting itself into good stubborn lines. ‘That’s not what I came here for. I came to drill. I’ve been with my father. He comes first. I can’t join the Squad if he doesn’t come first. We’re not on active service, and we’re not in barracks.’
    Then The Rat moved sharply and turned to look at him.
    ‘I thought you weren’t coming at all!’ he snapped and