Roy

He mounted and rode off.

"'Tis better to be over-careful than under-careful," suggested Mr. Bryce.

"And the stronger the front that we present, the less likely are we to be attacked. But I must away. Sir David Dundas will be soon arriving. My compliments to Mrs. Bryce. She is not, I hope, the worse for this alarm."

"Somewhat shaken, sir; but we will return to cheer her spirits. She proposes flight to Bath for greater safety."

"She might perhaps go to a worse place," the General said, as he mounted and rode off, with a parting salute.

"Well, Polly?" They had watched him out of sight; and Mr. Bryce turned to his companion.

"Well, sir?" echoed Polly in arch tones.

"The false alarm at least has served to show of what metal some folks are made," remarked Mr. Bryce drily.

CHAPTER XII

ORDERED TO VERDUN

"MOTHER!" cried Roy, bursting into the sitting-room at Fontainebleau, one wintry day. "Ma'am—what do you think?"

Roy by this time was quite recovered from his illness, though his face carried traces of it in the shape of several small red pits, which had not yet had time to lose their prominence. He was still small and childish for his years,—a good-looking lad, but for those disfiguring marks. His eyes sparkled with excitement. Ivor, who happened to be in the background, made a silencing gesture, but Roy was too eager to notice it.

"Only think! All of us are ordered off to Verdun! Why, that is where Mademoiselle de St. Roques lives. We shall see her again. I shall like that, but 'tis horrid having to go further away from home. Everybody says what a beastly shame it is. It's a fortified town, and we prisoners are to be in stricter keeping."

Roy liked to speak of himself as a prisoner, even while he chafed furiously against the restraints of imprisonment. He objected to the indignity of being counted so young as not to be worth detention. "I am quite as old as lots of middies," he would declare. "And only two or three years younger than General Moore when he began to be a soldier." This assertion generally brought laughter, for nobody ever guessed Roy at thirteen to be more than ten or eleven.

"You should not startle your mother, Roy," the Colonel said gravely, as Mrs. Baron's eyes grew wide and terrified. "You should have waited until I spoke."

Roy began to see, too late, the nature of his blunder.

"I'm sorry, sir. But shall we go by diligence or poste, or will you have a carriage?"

"A carriage, probably, for your mother and Den and myself."

The words were said deliberately. Colonel Baron had made up his mind in that moment to take the bull by the horns. Delay now would be useless.

"And me, sir?"

Colonel Baron's silence spoke more plainly to his wife than to Roy. She stood up, and with her graceful step moved across, to lay one slender hand on either of her boy's shoulders. Colonel Baron knew that in her mind, as in his, was the promise she had given months before, that, if they should have to go to a greater distance from England, she would then consent to Roy's return.

Her husband knew that she would not try to draw back from her word; but neither would she hide what the keeping of it would cost her. The détenus had pretty well given up hopes of any speedy release; and she could not but know that a parting from her boy might mean long separation. It was hard to be away from Molly, but in that respect Colonel Baron was the greater sufferer, since he had always doted especially on his little girl. To part with Roy would be to Mrs. Baron simply heart-breaking. But she had promised; and Colonel Baron would not let her off her promise.

"Why, ma'am, you don't mind it so much as that! I wouldn't cry for old Boney," remonstrated Roy, as her tears fell heavily.

Colonel Baron came close, and she turned from Roy to lean against him, breaking into bitter sobs.

"My dear heart, we must think of the boy—not of ourselves," urged the Colonel. "Think how much better for him to be at school in England. But for Den, this life would be ruination for him."

"Am I to go home?" asked Roy, as a few more words from his father revealed the state of the case. "Will Napoleon let me?"

The gentlemen exchanged glances. "You are not a détenu," replied Colonel Baron, though his mind misgave him, for he had heard lately of more than one instance in which an attempt to get a passport had proved a failure. "There ought to be no difficulty. I must apply for a passport at once."

Roy stood thinking. "And I shall see Molly again," he remarked. "It does seem an awful long while since I left her. Shall I go to school? And shall I spend my holidays in Bath till you and my mother come home?"

Mrs. Baron hid her face.

"Yes, of course,—I see—I ought to go," pursued Roy. "It wouldn't do for me to stop on here. In two or three years I've got to be a soldier, and then Napoleon would want to keep me altogether. I'd much better be off. How soon can I start? It will be jolly to see Molly again."

Roy was making matters worse, and Ivor stood up, throwing aside his book. "Come!" he said shortly, with an imperative sign, and Roy followed. Outside the house Ivor remarked, "You must be more careful. You have to think of your mother's feelings."

Roy looked up in surprise. "Did I say something wrong?"

"Could you not see? She is breaking her heart at the thought of losing you. Just imagine what it will be to her not to have her boy any longer. Don't let her think you are glad to go."

"But I'm not glad to leave her. Of course I'm not. I'm only glad to go to England, and to see Molly, and to be free to fight as soon as I'm old enough. I should think she'd understand."

A curious expression crossed the other's face. "You can hardly expect her to want you to fight. That's not the way with mothers. The last thing she would wish would be for you to hold back, but she will be unhappy. You can't possibly know what the parting will be to her, but still you can be kind. Really brave men are always kind as well as brave, you know."

Roy showed signs of being impressed. He knew Denham to be so gallant a soldier that words of this sort coming from him had especial weight. Neither spoke again directly. Roy walked fast, doing his best to match Ivor's long stride, though compelled now and then to make a droll little extra step, if he would not be left behind.

"Yes, of course," he said at length. "I suppose that's what we men have to do. I mean, we have to try not to make women unhappy. When I get back I don't mean ever to make Molly cry again."

The application for Roy's passport was duly made, and a formal reply promised attention. There the matter stood still. Colonel Baron deferred the journey to Verdun as long as possible, hoping to receive the passport; but it failed to arrive.

Some discussion took place as to the possibility of leaving Roy in Fontainebleau; but this, in the then state of France, was felt to be too great a risk. Once parted, they might be unable to come together again. And though a good deal of kindness had been shown to English prisoners by French residents, yet there was no one with whom they could be content to place Roy for an indefinite time. Not Colonel Baron only, but his wife too, by this time greatly regretted not having sent Roy home at the first, when leave had been more readily granted.

Roy rebelled angrily. He had liked to talk of himself grandly as a "prisoner of war," feeling that he was free. It was another matter to find himself really a prisoner, and he was unhappy and furious by turns.

"It's too beastly disgusting," he declared to his chief confidant. "That old wretch of a Boney. I wish I could shoot him."

"You must be more careful, Roy. Walls have ears in France."

"He hasn't any right to keep me. I've a right to go home."

"I'm afraid the First Consul cares little for any man's rights, except his own."

"Den, don't you want to go home?"

Did he not want it? The handsome bronzed face, which had of late grown thinner than its wont, looked at Roy with a concentrated stillness. "Yes; more than you can understand, perhaps. When I think of all that is going on elsewhere—"

"You'd like to be fighting under Sir John Moore, wouldn't you? And it makes one so mad to be penned up here for nothing."

Roy's words found too sharp an echo in Denham's mind to be met lightly. He said after a slight pause: "If you feel so, can't you see what it must be to me?"

Roy was conscious of something unusual in the quiet features.

"Den, I say—"

"Of course the state of things can't but be a trouble—a great trouble. But sometimes one has to be brave in captivity as well as in fighting. And Napoleon will not be allowed to go on always unchecked. I believe that in time England will make headway against him."

"And if England did do it—and you and I were to be all the while here—not able to help—"

Another distinct break.

"Won't do for us to think about that, Roy."

Roy instinctively changed the subject.

"I don't think mother is sorry that I'm going to Verdun."

"She is not sorry for our sake—any more than I am. I have been wondering what in the world I should do without my friend Roy."

"Den, am I your friend truly?" Roy clutched the young Guardsman's arm. "Would you be sorry if I went?" He read a plain answer in the other's look. "O then I don't mind,—then I'll be glad. I don't care, if you like to have me. I thought I was just a bother. I'd rather be your friend than anybody's." And in the same breath, "I say, when shall we see Mademoiselle de St. Roques?"

"What do you think of lodging in her home? The old people with whom she lives would be glad to let their upstairs floors. Yes, I think we shall do it."

One day later, the passport being still withheld, Roy started, in company with his parents and Denham, on the cold and dismal journey to Verdun. Happily Colonel Baron could afford to travel with some degree of comfort. Many of the unfortunate British détenus were in a far worse case. Having no means of their own to pay for chaise or diligence, they had to go on foot, under the charge of gendarmes, sleeping at night in common jails, with filthy and vermin-invested straw for their beds. Whereas the Colonel managed to secure a large roomy old coach or chariot, which had once belonged to some well-to-do person, probably a nobleman since decapitated. With relays of horses, even though the horses in question were sorry beasts, they made fairly quick advance.

CHAPTER XIII

A FRENCH CONSCRIPT

DENHAM IVOR was a man considerably better educated and better read than the average young officer of his day, a matter for congratulation in respect of Roy's present education; and also his intellectual gifts were well above the average level.

The main force of the man lay, however, rather in the direction of character than of pure intellect. There was about him a soldierly directness and simplicity, together with a whole-heartedness which often belongs to that type of nature. Whatever might befall, he would do his duty, not only with no thought of consequences to himself, but in the most direct and thorough mode possible.

He was a good man as well as a gallant soldier. He was one who might say little, but who would at all costs do what he believed to be right. He was honourable, true, pure-minded, chivalrous towards women, tender towards little children, reverent and faithful towards his God. He was indomitable in courage when he faced a foe; but so soon as fighting ceased, he would be the first to succour a wounded enemy.

All this means largely, as has been earlier stated, that Denham Ivor had taken shape under the influence and the example of John Moore. Ivor was the pupil; Moore was the master.

The prolonged banishment from England and captivity in France could not fail to be to him a terrible trial; not only because he was cut off indefinitely from the girl whom he loved with whole-hearted devotion; but because too he was cut off, in his full vigour, from every hope of promotion and honour, and from serving under the Commander whom he loved with a devotion no less whole-hearted.

Yet he seldom spoke to any one about the greatness of the trouble. It seemed as if his spirit of soldierly obedience had taught him also the secret of submission to the Divine Will.

It is easy to see that a friendship of this kind could not fail to be good for Roy. And the friendship was not such in name only, since advantages existed on both sides. Much as Ivor could do for the lad, in the way of teaching him and keeping him out of mischief, there was another side to the question. Roy, by his light-heartedness and his spirit of unconquerable fun, could and did do much to lighten the weight of the young Guardsman's wearisome captivity.

The journey from Fontainebleau to Verdun, of one hundred and seventy miles or more, would be nothing much in these days of steam-power, but it was a considerable matter in those times of slow travelling. It seemed to weigh upon Ivor's spirits more than anything had yet weighed upon them; or Denham was less successful in hiding what he felt. Mrs. Baron was brighter than for months past. Her relief at not being forced to leave her husband, or to part yet with Roy, tended to cheerfulness; and Colonel Baron, glad to see her happy, was the same himself. Roy, as usual, was in good spirits. Ivor alone appeared to have parted with his elasticity. He did not give in to the mood of depression; but it was patent enough to Mrs. Baron, whose concerned gaze wandered often towards him.

No one except Ivor himself could know the haunting vision of Polly Keene, which floated before his eyes through all those miles of driving, driving, ever further away from where he craved to be. He might reply readily to Roy's chatter; but so soon as silence recurred, up again would come that picture of Polly, with her soft velvet eyes, her delicate colouring, her arch smile. And then he would hear the tender yielding in her voice, as she confessed that she did like Captain Ivor—well, just a little!—and that she might perhaps be willing to marry him—well, some day!

Out of this Denham would awake to the dreary flat of the surrounding country, in its wintry colouring; and the wonder would suggest itself, how many years might not creep slowly by before that could ever be. He might even grow old and grey in this miserable banishment, before he should see Polly again. Why not? In those times wars had been wont to last in one unbroken stretch for such periods as seven years, ten years, twenty years, thirty years.

Would Polly be content to wait for him?

This question took him by surprise one day, with nothing especial to call it forth. Ivor had not before so much as thought of the reverse possibility. The idea that she might not be willing to wait came freshly; but having once come it did not soon depart.

He never afterwards lost the impression of that moment. The scene around was deeply stamped upon his mind, in connection with the one thought.

They had just reached the end of a stage, and were entering a small town, where fresh horses would be waiting. Ivor was listening to Roy, responding in a half-absent fashion, and gazing down the street, when, without warning, that query burst upon him.

Would Polly indeed be willing to wait? Did she care enough? She was very young; hardly more than a child. If he were to be years away from her, the two never meeting, letters seldom passing between them, could he expect—would it even be fair and reasonable to expect—that he should remain enshrined in her heart, as surely as she would remain enshrined in his? Polly had known him intimately but a few weeks, though their acquaintance extended further back; and impressions made upon the mind and imagination at seventeen are not always lasting. Moreover, Polly was exceedingly pretty, quite unusually charming. Other men would wish to marry her. Could he expect such constancy on her part as that she should wait for her absent lover, refusing every other chance that might present itself? What would her grandmother think and say? Polly, with all her charms, was a portionless maiden.

The whole question rolled itself out before Denham's mental gaze, as they drove along the chief street of the place, exciting less attention than usual. With his bodily eyes he saw little, yet in a manner he was aware that a considerable stir prevailed, and he heard, almost without hearing, Roy's rapid questions.

"I don't at all know," he replied mechanically, as they came to a halt before the inn.

"Den—look—what a lot of people outside the maison de ville! And some of them seem so miserable. What are they after?"

"I have not the least idea. Something seems to be wrong. Easy to find out."

The mystery was soon explained. This happened to be a day appointed for drawing for the conscription; and around the door of the little town-hall opposite were gathered the near relatives of the young fellows who were eligible. There was no mistaking the dread written upon their faces.

One woman in particular drew notice. She was bent and old in appearance, though very likely not beyond middle age; she had grey hair; and she wore a short very full skirt, with a long-waisted bodice, and big brass buckles on her shoes. From under the wide-brimmed hat her face waited, with a consuming eagerness, for news, the lips working, the eyes staring.

"I wonder if she's got a son. I hope, if she has, he won't be taken," exclaimed Roy. "What are they doing inside."

"Drawing lots, to see who must go to the wars. All the young men in the neighbourhood, of a certain age, have been called together, probably; and those who are passed by surgeons as whole and healthy have to draw lots. Some will escape, and some will have to go."

"Look—they are coming out. And something is being said—what is it?"

"Hush—the names of those who are drawn."

All listened intently; and the elderly woman, clasping her worn hands, leaned forward, with a face of concentrated suspense.

"Jean Paulet," sounded clearly.

A bitter wailing cry burst from her, drowning what followed. She held out wild appealing arms. "Mon fils! Mon fils!" she gasped, and dropped senseless to the ground.

"Can nothing be done?" exclaimed Mrs. Baron in distress. "The poor creature! George, will they not let him off? Surely they need not be so cruel as to take him away!"

"I am afraid the only chance would be a substitute—and not much hope of that."

"Do ask. Find out something. Do, please."

Denham crossed the road with his rapid stride, followed closely by his inevitable shadow, Roy, while the Colonel came after in more leisurely style. The poor woman's friends were attending to her; and Ivor, always the Colonel's spokesman in a foreign language, made inquiries of a respectable man, probably a small shopkeeper, standing by. The man shrugged his shoulders as he replied. "It had to be," he said, not unkindly, but resignedly. All young men equally were subject to the conscription, and he who "fell" had to go. There was no escape, no remedy. None, except through the purchase of a substitute; and Marie Paulet, he feared, could not manage that. She was a good woman, truly estimable, and he was sorry for her, yes, sincerely sorry; but what was to be done? The First Consul required soldiers, and, in fact, he would have them! Another expressive shrug.

How much would be required for a substitute? Eh Bien—one hundred livres would doubtless suffice. Madame Paulet, foreseeing this day, had toiled hard and saved assiduously during many years; but with her utmost exertions, as he knew, for she had told him, she had managed to get together only fifty-five livres. No substitute could be obtained for only fifty-five livres. No, no, impossible! Jean would have to go, and his mother would grow used to it, like other mothers. How soon? Sans doute he would be marched away at once—immediately—to the nearest dépôt, there to be exercised. The thing had to be. There was no remedy. All France was giving up her best men, by tens of thousands, to feed the army. In parts already none but women and old men remained to till the soil.

"Was Madame Paulet a widow?" asked Denham.

"Oui, oui, oui, oui," the man said, fast as the words could come. Certainly she was a widow; but then she was not over sixty, nor was Jean her only son. Had she been over sixty, and depending for her subsistence upon an only son, then vraiment her case would have been easily pleaded. Marie Paulet was under fifty in age, though she looked more, since she had toiled hard and had known much sorrow. She had a second son too, young and somewhat lame, but able to work, though in truth more of a burden than an assistance. Jean, however, would have to go. This was a supplementary conscription for the year, more men being urgently required by the First Consul.

Jean Paulet stood with a face of sullen despair beside his mother, saying not a word. He was scarcely over nineteen, only one fortnight past the day, Ivor's informant remarked; and he looked young, being loose-limbed and shambling, though broad-shouldered.

"Ask them how much they could make up among themselves towards the purchase of a substitute. Some may be willing to help," suggested the Colonel.

Denham obeyed, and a discussion took place in raised voices. The two Englishmen waited gravely, Mrs. Baron watching from the coach, while Roy stood close by, scanning the conscript with interested gaze. Marie Paulet sat upon the cold ground, weeping bitterly.

"About fifteen livres seems to be all, sir. They are poor here. It is a marvel how the woman has managed to save so much. But I am ready to give fifteen livres."

Colonel Baron's eyebrows stirred. "Well, tell them that, if they can find a substitute for one hundred livres, you will give fifteen, and I will do the same. For my part, I doubt if a substitute can be procured, the drain on the country has been so severe of late. But it will soften matters a little to the poor woman. I rather grudge letting the money go into French pockets—but I'd defy any one with proper sensibilities to stand out against that poor creature's misery."

Denham explained what "Monsieur le Colonel Anglais" had said, failing to make clear his own share in the matter, though from no lack of power to express himself. The scene that followed was eminently French in its abandon of joy. One of the young men present who was eligible but who had not been drawn—had not tombé, as the saying was—came forward, and offered for the sum of one hundred livres to go as the substitute for Jean Paulet. This settled matters; and without hesitation Colonel Baron produced notes for the amount he had named, Denham adding his own donation with a rapid movement, which drew no attention.

Thereupon enthusiasm rose to its height. The people of the town, with whom Marie and her son were plainly favourites, shouted their approval; while Marie crept close to Colonel Baron, knelt at his feet, sobbed out her wordless rapture, and even kissed his hands, to the Colonel's discomfiture.

"I say, Den, I'm going back to the carriage. Say whatever you choose to them. It's all right, but I vow this sort of thing doesn't quite suit a Britisher. And it strikes me you haven't made 'em understand that you're doing as much as I am. Tell 'em that, and talk as much as you think necessary, and then come along."

A murmur in French from Roy to Jean Paulet gave the further explanation, which would not have been forthcoming from Denham; and he had to submit to some of the vehement demonstrations from which the Colonel had basely fled. Denham endured them with a certain reticent indifference of manner, which did not mean true indifference. A slightly quizzical smile stirred his lips, but the dark eyes bent upon poor old Mme. Paulet were infinitely kind.

Then he too made a move towards the coach; and Roy, lingering one moment more, held out a hand to Jean, who seemed half stunned with his unexpected escape.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," the boy said frankly. "I'm glad you are not going to fight against the English just yet."

Jean muttered broken words—something of a faltering hope and prayer that a day might come when he should have it in his power, perhaps—who could tell?—to do some benefit for Monsieur le Colonel, or for Monsieur le Colonel's friend.

It seemed very unlikely—most unlikely—that he and these passing English prisoners should ever meet again, still more that he should be able to do aught for them. Yet most improbable events do take place in this world of ours. Roy had not that day seen the last of Jean Paulet.

As the coach started, in the midst of grateful acclamations, Marie Paulet held up mute hands, tears streaming down her faded cheeks. Such a look was hers, that even Colonel Baron was conscious of moisture in his eyes, though by no means easily moved to outward emotion. Mrs. Baron was weeping outright, with the thought of what such a parting would be between Roy and herself. As for Denham, nobody managed to get a clear sight of his face for a quarter of a minute.

Once more they were rolling along the interminable roads, Roy wondering whether Jean Paulet would be drawn at some future time; while Denham's mind, like a spring released, went back to the one engrossing question, which for a space had been thrust into the background. Would Polly indeed wait for him? Or would she grow tired of waiting, forget his love, and become the wife of another?

That possibility held him in thrall both day and night, through the rest of this wearisome journey.

CHAPTER XIV

IN A FORTIFIED TOWN

IT was growing dark when at length they drove through the gates into Verdun.

No one then said a needless word, not even Roy. The sense of banishment and of captivity pressed upon them all with a new force at the sight of this fortified town, with its massive encircling walls, its iron gates, its pervading gendarmerie. If any lack of realisation of their true position had helped them hitherto, it had small chance of surviving this hour.

At the gate they had to pause, a gendarme coming to the coach-door. He said something to Denham, which made Colonel Baron ask sharply, "Eh? What's that?"

"We are to go first to the citadel. Not necessary for Mrs. Baron and Roy. You and I might walk it, sir, and send them on."

"No, no," Mrs. Baron interposed. "I cannot go alone. We will keep together."

On reaching the citadel Mrs. Baron and Roy were desired by the Colonel to remain in the coach, while he and Denham disappeared, to be carefully examined and closely questioned, and again to give their parole, after which they came out, the Colonel saying shortly, "That business is done! Tell them where to go, Den. They seem determined to know us again."

"Were they civil?" his wife asked.

"No end of a fuss, my dear. As if the word of an English gentleman were not sufficient! Close description of us both written in the register."

Once more they drove on, Roy gazing from side to side, noting the small insignificant shops, and exclaiming at occasional peeps of the river, with an interest which never failed him. The others were silent, and saw less. Mrs. Baron's eyes were dim; the Colonel was preoccupied; and Ivor, usually the most observant of men, seemed to notice nothing.

Presently they stopped before the gateway of a large old house or small private hotel, with an untidy courtyard. An old Frenchman, in quaint dress, grey-haired, with an imposing pigtail, came to meet them, bowing profoundly to the gentlemen, and still more profoundly to Mrs. Baron.

"C'est, sans doute, Monsieur le Colonel—et Madame."

Colonel Baron's particular gift did not lie in foreign languages. He never could talk French, and he never would, no matter how many years he might live in France.

"Oui, Monsieur. Bonjour. C'est nous qui sont viendrai," he responded, feeling it incumbent on him to say something, as he descended from the old coach. "J'espère que vous ètes bien. Je suis bien aise que nous sommes haut—pas bas—pas près de le rivière. Denham, you can do it better than I. Just say what's suitable."

Denham obeyed, and the next sight which dawned upon them was the gentle face of Lucille de St. Roques. The Colonel and his wife gratefully expressed their thanks for her past kindness to their boy, as she led the way upstairs to the first floor. There stood Mme. Courant, a fat and smiling little Frenchwoman, ready to bestow unlimited welcomes upon the unfortunate foreigners.

Lucille exchanged bows with Ivor, and then she had a few words with him, scanning his face with troubled glances. The rooms had to be inspected, and they were found to be not bad as to size, though meagrely furnished. Lucille had evidently worked hard, trying to make things wear as far as possible an English look. If her efforts were less successful than she wished, nobody betrayed the fact.

"But it has been no trouble—not at all," she assured them, when they apologised.

While anxious to help, and full of sympathy for their position, she plainly feared to be guilty of intrusion, and soon she took herself off with Mme. Courant to the ground floor. A clumsy but well-intentioned maiden had been deputed to wait upon the upstairs party, probably had been hired for the purpose, since Mme. Courant, an excellent bourgeoise, did most of her own house-work.

Dinner was laid in the smaller salon, in readiness for their arrival; and on the whole that first meal might be called a success. Mme. Courant was no mean cook; and though not much could be said as to the waiting from an English point of view, that was a minor matter, compared with the comfort of clean and cosy quarters, not to speak of the kind reception.

When, however, dinner was at an end, and they had moved into the larger salon, when a long evening lay before them, and there was nothing that had to be done, beyond some amount of unpacking which no one cared to begin at once,—then a change came. Then the black shadow of their captivity descended upon them all, even upon the valiant Roy; and for once the spirit of cheerfulness vanished.

For a quarter of an hour they kept together, nobody speaking. No one was able to speak. They had nothing to say.

Presently Mrs. Baron made a move, retreating into her own bedroom; and her husband followed her. Denham had flagged completely, taking refuge in a shady corner of the big fireplace, where he could scarcely be seen; and for Den to flag meant the flagging of everybody. As for Roy, but that he would have been ashamed, he could at this stage have flung himself on the ground, and have cried like a little child for very home-sickness.

He wanted Molly,—oh, most awfully! He wanted her this evening more than he had ever wanted anybody or anything in his life. The craving that took possession of him for Molly's face, Molly's voice, Molly's companionship, the passionate desire to have dear little Molly once more by his side, was a pain never to be forgotten.

Roy did not know how to bear himself under it. He had nothing to do, nothing with which to pass the time. He stood at the window, trying desperately to be cool and stoical as the minutes lagged past. Denham never moved, never spoke a word. Roy could make out his dark outline, as motionless as a carved image, a few yards distant. If only Denham would have talked, if something would have happened, to keep going would have been easier.

Presently Denham did speak. "Come here," he said.

Roy obeyed rather unwillingly.

"Feel very bad this evening, Roy?"

The question took Roy by surprise, and Denham understood his silence. "Never mind," he said. "It's the same with all of us, you know. And there is one comfort for you, that Molly wants you at least as much as you want her. Some people would give a good deal for a like certainty."

Roy tried to explain matters away. "I didn't say—"

"No, I know. Never mind, my boy. Things will mend by and by."

Denham's chair shook as Roy leant against it. He fought his little battle, and Denham waited, racking his brain to think of some occupation for the boy.

"We shall all feel better to-morrow," came presently. "Things cannot look comfortable at first in a strange place. Roy, I wish you would unpack my valise for me—just the things I shall want to-night. It would be a help."

"May I really? Den, aren't you well?"

"Rather done. Yes, I wish you would."

Roy was delighted, and went off at full speed. Outside the door he all but rushed into Lucille's arms. She drew back, and held up something.

"A letter from England, Roy!"

"O I say, that's good. Who for? Den! I'm glad. He's just floored to-night."

"And this is medicine for Monsieur."

Roy flung open the salon door, announcing, "A letter A letter for you, Den. From England."

"From the post?" asked Denham, receiving from her hand a folded and sealed packet.

"Non, Monsieur. It arrives from M. de Bertrand. It was sent to him from England—under cover—and he waited till he should learn your address. Then he sent it to me by one travelling this way. I am glad," she softly added.

Denham bent nearer to the candle, trying with drawn brows and aching eyes to make out the handwriting. As he did so, a curious light crept into his face.

"You are very good, Mademoiselle. I am much indebted to you and to M. de Bertrand."

"Den, I do believe 'tis Polly's writing," cried Roy.

Denham glanced towards him.

"Yes. It is from Polly."

CHAPTER XV

FROM OVER THE WATER

LUCILLE, turning to go, made a little sign to Roy to follow her. Ivor opened the door, moving mechanically, as if his mind were far-away; and Roy, with a show of reluctance, went in her rear.

"But, Mademoiselle, I want to know about them all at home. Molly most! And Den can tell me."

"Yes; soon. But would you not leave Monsieur to read his letter in peace? Would not that be kind?"

"Are you more sorry for Den than for the rest of us?" demanded Roy, his frank grey eyes looking Lucille in the face somewhat laughingly. The question took her by surprise; and afterwards she recurred to it, wondering at the boy's unconscious penetration. At the moment she met his glance readily enough.

"I do not know. I am sorry for you all. But Captain Ivor—yes, perhaps most. He is more changed by his imprisonment than any. Cannot you perceive? Mais non—you are a boy—you do not look."

"I do, though," protested the injured Roy. "But I can't see that Den is changed—not a scrap. What do you mean? He's the best old fellow that ever lived—just as he always was, you know."

"Old!" repeated Lucille, with a lifting of her eyebrows.

"O that's only—that means nothing. At least, it means that I like him better than anybody else—except Molly. No, he isn't old really, of course,—he was twenty-five last birthday." Roy laughed to himself.

"Something that you find amusing, Roy!"

"It's only the letter. Do you know, that's from the girl he is going to marry some day. It's from Polly."

"Oui—" Lucille had already conjectured as much. "Mademoiselle Pol-ly! C'est un peu drole, ce nom-là."

"But 'tis not Mademoiselle Po-lee. 'Tis just Polly. You do say names so drolly—so French! Den says I'm not to cure you of talking as you do, because 'tis pretty. But her name really and truly isn't Polly. She is Mary Keene—only no one ever calls her Mary."

"Mademoiselle Marie Keene,—ah, oui. And is this Mademoiselle Keene pretty—gentille?"

"I should just think she was. The prettiest girl that ever was," declared Roy. "Though I like Molly best, you know, and she's not pretty. But Polly's nice too. May I go back now? Den has had lots of time."

"I would wait—ten minutes—why not? You have not yet unpacked for Monsieur."

Roy murmured one impatient "Bother!" and then his face cleared, and he complied. Ivor did not know how much he owed to Lucille, in being thus left to the undisturbed enjoyment of his letter.

He forgot all about both Lucille and Roy, when once he had it. The very touch of that thick paper, with its red seals, did him good. As he unfolded it, the weight on his brain lessened, and sight became more clear.

There was one sheet, square-shaped, written well over. Polly's letter came first, and another from somebody else followed it. Ivor did not trouble himself as to the authorship of the second, till he had read through the first. He scarcely vouchsafed it a glance.

The early part of Polly's effusion, which bore a date many weeks old, was written in a strain of studied archness and badinage, such as in those days was greatly affected by young ladies. Towards the end a little peep into Polly's heart was permitted. She had apparently just received one of Ivor's many epistles, the greater number of which never reached their destination.

"Bath, November 7, 1803."

   "MY DEAR CAPTAIN IVOR,—So you consider that I have been too slow in writing to you, and you make complaint that I leave you too long without letters. But how know you that I have not sent at least one for every single one of yours to me? In truth, I cannot boast of any vast Correspondence on your side, my dear Sir, since the letter which is now arriv'd is but the second in—O in quite an interminable length of time. And were it not that I have an exceeding Aversion to the writing of Letters, as indeed you ought to be aware, since I am sure I have told you as much, I might feel regrets at hearing so seldom—but that it means the less toil on my part, you understand. If it were not that in your last you give a delicate hint that Silence on my part might be construed to mean something of the Nature of Indifference, why, even now, I should be greatly disposed to indulge my Dislike to driving the Quill, and wait till another day."

   "But since doubtless you will expect to hear, and since we never may know which letters have gone astray, I will so far overcome my inclinations—or my disinclinations—as to sit down and endeavour to entertain you with the best of the Bath News."

   "My letter which was writ from Sandgate you have I trust already received, and thus you know all about the scare which took place, when the French Fleet was descried by somebody of not very good sight—or so I suppose!—and when signals went wrong, and the Soldiers and Sea-Fencibles and Volunteers were all called out, and when General Moore galloped the whole distance from Dungeness Point to be in time, and when Mrs. Bryce's heart failed her. But not Polly's, Captain Ivor—of that you may be sure! For Polly is to be one day the wife of a soldier! And also Polly knew that, if she were to be taken prisoner, as Mrs. Bryce dolefully foretold, why—why—that might mean that she could hope to be sent to where Somebody is, whom sloe would not be greatly sorry to see once again."

   "Mrs. Bryce insisted on coming hither in hot haste, lest Napoleon should please to land at Sandgate, where General Moore waited to receive him; and now she is in doubt what to do next, since some think London is the safer place to be in. But General Moore does not now think that Napoleon will make any effort till spring, since any day winter storms in the Channel may begin; and Jack scorns the notion that, when he does come, he will ever advance beyond the sea-beach. 'Tis said that, if Mr. Pitt comes into power again, he will speedily start some new ideas for our Preservation; and my Grandmamma says, therefore, that we may not start any new expenses till we know to what length Taxation will allow us to run. But for which I wanted much a new frock."

   "Last week I was in Bristol for three days, with my Grandmother's old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Graham. I was invited to a Dance with them, and I went, but without the smallest idea of dancing, having been assured that beaux were scarce, and strangers seldom asked. So I determined to enjoy seeing others more fortunate, and to pass a quiet stupid evening, meditating on an absent Somebody—can you by any possibility guess Whom, my Dear Sir?"

   "But matters turned out otherwise. I had entered the room only a few minutes, when a most genteel handsome young Man advanced, and with such sort of speeches as you all make solicited the honour of my hand. To tell you the honest and plain truth, I had seen him before, and I therefore graciously assented. I left the ladies that accompanied me—Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Graham's sister—to look out for themselves; and I began thereupon to enjoy myself. Now, if you want to know his name, you must wait till I choose to tell you. He contributed to my passing a very agreeable evening; and so far I am obliged to him; for he knew many who were present, and he took good care that I should be in no lack of partners; but whether I ever see him again does not seem to be of any sort of consequence. Every one was astonished at my great good luck in dancing; for the Gentlemen were, as usual, idle. There were some sad Coxcombs present, I regret to say, who found it too much exertion even to come forward and shawl a lady when she was departing. But I forget—I am writing to one who knows not the meaning of the word 'trouble,' and who would never leave any woman, not if she were the least Bewitching of her Sex, to stand neglected, if he could put matters right. So you see, my dear Sir, what my opinion of you is."

   "Having related thus much, I really am bound to go further, and to inform you that the young man's name was Albert Peirce, that he is a nephew of the good Admiral, that he is an officer in His Majesty's Army, and that I saw him at Sandgate, the evening before our great scare about the Invasion. After all his civilities in the way of getting me Partners, he also handed me down to the vastly elegant Supper, which was provided; and by that time, there's no doubt, I needed it."

   "You may perhaps be thinking that I do very well without you, on the whole; yet I cannot say that I do not miss my absent friend. Indeed I do, and my Spirits are lower since you went away. 'Tis said too that my Roses are much diminished, and that I must e'en take to the use of Painting and Cosmetics, if I would preserve my Charms; but this, I confess, I am loath to do. So come home, my dear Denham, I entreat of you, as soon as ever you may, for in truth I am longing to see you again. Is there no Exchange of Prisoners ever to be brought about by the two Governments? The present state of things is sad and dolorous for so many. I think of sending this letter to your old address in Paris, in a cover addressed to M. de Bertrand, who so kindly took in Roy when he had the smallpox. It appears that few letters which are posted arrive safely; and 'tis at least worth while to try this mode. And now I must write no more, for my Grandmother craves a part of the sheet for a letter on her own behalf, that she may give suitable particulars about Molly, who begs me to send her Duty to her parents, and her Love to Roy. I have entreated only that the Letter may be writ to yourself, that so the whole sheet may be yours. So at present no more, from—"

   "Yours faithfully and Till Death,          POLLY KEENE."

Denham held the signature to his lips. Would he ever again be tempted to doubt sweet Polly's constancy?

The letter following, on the last page, was shorter and different in style. Mrs. Fairbank wrote:

   "MY DEAR CAPTAIN IVOR,—I am desirous to let Colonel Baron and his wife know that Molly is in good health, and behaves herself as she ought. I have therefore requested the use of one page in Polly's letter, since she assures me that she has nought to say that is of great Importance. You will doubtless kindly give my message to Colonel and Mrs. Baron."

   "I am greatly indebted to Colonel Baron for the money which has been sent to me by his Bankers regularly, in conformity with his orders given many months ago. Expenses are increasingly heavy, as Prices continue steadily to arise, in consequence of the long-continued Wars; and I shou'd find it truly difficult to manage, as things are now, but for his seasonable and generous help. I am thankful to have it in my power to do all that is needed for Molly, and the help to myself is not small. Bread and every necessary are rising."

   "Molly has a Governess who comes in every day; and I am pleased to be able to report that she makes good advance in her Study's, as much as one cou'd expect. The young Governess is of french Extraction, her father having lost his life in the french Revolution, and her Mother having fled with this daughter to England. She will therefore be able to impart to Molly the correct Pronunciation of french terms, which few Britishers manage to Acquire. Molly is growing fast; and though she will never be handsome, she is gaining a Pleasing expression of Countenance; her manners are Genteel; and she behaves with Candour and Propriety."

   "Serious fears have been Entertain'd of a french Invasion of this Country, but I trust, thro' the Mercy of God, that the danger is averted for this autumn. Mr. and Mrs. Bryce have fled to Bath for greater safety, in accordance with my Advice; and indeed I was heartily glad when Polly had left Sandgate. If the french Army shou'd land and shou'd advance to Lonⁿ, God forbid they shou'd molest the good Citizens, who I hope will be enabled to drive the french by thousands into old Thames. People seem now, however, greatly to relax their fears."

   "You will dou'tless be glad to hear that Polly is well though she has not quite her usual bloom. Indeed, I am convinc'd that she has suffered greatly from your prolonged absence, although having a high spirit she does not readily betray her feelings.—Believe me, my dear Sir,—"

   "Yours sincerely,                          C. FAIRBANK."

"Den, is it from Polly?" cried Roy, bursting into the room.

"Yes. And Molly is quite well, and sends you her love. Come, we must tell your mother that I have heard."

"I've done your unpacking. Mademoiselle kept me away. She said I must let you read your letter in peace."

"Rather hard upon you, eh?" suggested Ivor. "Come along!" and Roy, forgetting all else, sent a shout in advance to prepare his mother for what was coming.

They had to make the most of this letter. None could guess how long a time might pass before they would hear again. Every detail was eagerly dwelt upon, and on the whole Polly's report was counted satisfactory. Naturally it awoke fresh memories, fresh regrets, fresh longings; yet Denham at least was the better for his "medicine." The look of weight and strain was gone from his face next morning, and he seemed to be in much his usual spirits when he proposed a walk with Roy to explore the neighbourhood. He and the Colonel had just returned from appel, all détenus and prisoners having at stated intervals to report themselves at the maison de ville.

"Will you have to sign your names every day?" Mrs. Baron asked, on hearing what they had done.

"At present, no. Den and I and a few others are excused from doing so more often than once in five days. But the greater number have to show themselves every day—unless they can send a medical certificate, forbidding them to go out on account of illness."

"Remedy worse than disease," murmured Ivor.

"And if one stays away, without sending such a certificate, the gendarmes promptly make their appearance, expecting a fee for the trouble."

"How much?"

"Three francs,—so I am told."

"What a shame!"

"General Roussel does not seem to be a bad sort of fellow. Civil enough. But they mean to be strict."

"Good many escapes of late, sir."

"Why, Den—escapes when they've given their parole!" cried Roy.

"No; only when they have not given their parole. That makes all the difference."

"And may you go wherever you like?"

"Within stiff limits. Five miles from the town—no more without leave."

"I foresee that we shall have to pay pretty liberally for that leave," added the Colonel.

CHAPTER XVI

ORDERED TO VALENCIENNES

"DEN, I say—do come along," urged Roy.

"All right, if you don't mind paying a call."

Roy was ready for anything, and they went first toward the lower part of the town, on a level with the river. Roy, full as usual of talk, poured out items of information which he had gathered from Mademoiselle de St. Roques.

"She says Verdun is an awfully old place—goes back to almost the time of Charlemagne. Let's go on the ramparts. Don't they look like boulevards, with those trees? Mademoiselle says the ramparts are three miles long, all round. Where are we going, Den?"

"I want to look up a Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, a young artist and his wife. He was pointed out to me at appel. They were at Brussels on their wedding tour, when the arrest took place, and it seems to be a serious matter with them. Mr. Kinsland asked me to call."

"Are you going to help the Curtises?"

"That is as may be. I wish to find out how matters are with them. And I am taking you because, if you can keep Mrs. Curtis's attention engaged, it will give me a chance of a few words with her husband. You see, Roy, I'm treating you as my friend." Roy's glance showed full comprehension.

Mr. Curtis proved to be a gentlemanly young fellow, with a keen clever face, much overshadowed by present care. His wife, hardly more than a child in age, was kittenlike in small plump prettiness.

"O it is quite dreadful!" she said, fraternising at once with Roy. Having six brothers of her own, she was much at home with boys in general. "We were to have gone back the very next week, and everybody said there could be no need to hurry. And we were so enjoying ourselves—you know," with a blush. "Then that terrible order came, that we were to count ourselves prisoners. At least my husband was to be a prisoner, and, of course, that meant the same for me. And our dear little house, where we meant to be so happy, has been waiting for us ever since, empty. And Hugh's studio, and the picture he had in hand, which was to have been finished this autumn! He," lowering her voice, and speaking with childish unreserve, "was to have had a hundred pounds for it. Now everything is at a standstill. But you are in the same trouble too. I mustn't be selfish, and think only of ourselves."

She stole a glance across at Ivor, who was speaking in an undertone to her husband.

"It is so good of Captain Ivor to call. Mr. Kinsland, the clergyman, said he would ask him to come, but we never dreamt of seeing him so soon. We feel strange here, you know, and it is a help to see any one come in." Mrs. Curtis dropped her voice afresh. "What a pleasant-looking man he is; and so soldierly! Mr. Kinsland said he had never seen a handsomer face, and I don't think I ever did either. It is such a kind face, too. Mr. Kinsland said you were desperately fond of him."

Roy laughed. It was not his fashion to talk of being "fond" of people. "Den's just the best fellow that ever lived!" he declared—his usual formula. "And I suppose you got here before we did?"

"Only three days ago. We had to come to these rooms. Not very home-like, are they? but the landlady is nice. And nothing else would matter much, if only Hugh could get back to his work. It makes him so depressed not to be able, poor fellow. Men are very soon depressed—don't you think so?"

Roy said "No" promptly, and then remembered Denham on the preceding evening, but he did not take back the monosyllable. He exerted himself to keep her talking, and he also did his utmost not to see or hear, yet he could not help being aware of a suspicious little movement of Denham's hand, and then of a startled "No, no! How can I? From a stranger!"

"We are not strangers. We are brothers in misfortune," Denham answered, with the smile which always drew people to him. "Call it a loan if you like. For your wife's sake—" very softly—"do not refuse."

Roy did not hear all this, but he heard more than he was meant to hear. A move then was made, and Curtis replied huskily to some careless remark, as the callers took leave.

"Den, I say, I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't quite help," came outside as a confession.

"Then your next duty is to forget. Now for the ramparts," Ivor said, dropping the subject at once. Roy knew better than to put any questions.

When first Verdun was appointed to be a depot for prisoners, the commandant was a General Roussel, of whom no English prisoner had any complaint to make. He treated them well and justly, and such hardships as they had to endure were for the most part not his fault but the fault of the French Government.

Unhappily, before many months were past General Roussel was sent elsewhere, and his successor, General Wirion, soon showed himself to be a man of a totally different stamp. Wirion was a product of the Revolution, the son of a pork-dealer in Picardy, at first an attorney's clerk with a shady reputation, then an active terrorist, approved of by the villain Robespierre. He was, in fact, a low-born and ill-bred scoundrel, avaricious and grasping, who under Napoleon had risen to be a general of gendarmerie.

Prolonged captivity, with such a creature in authority, was likely to become even worse than it had been before; and so, to their cost, the captives at Verdun speedily found.

All indulgences allowed by the first commandant were removed. Prisoners and détenus alike, no matter what their grade or position, were compelled twice a day to report themselves at appel, unless they preferred by payment to escape the unpleasant necessity. Instead of being free to walk or drive as far as five miles from the town in any direction, they now might not leave the gates without payment of six francs. Incessant douceurs were demanded on every possible pretext; and oppressions, bribery, and rank injustice became the order of the day.

Again and again numbers of the détenus, on some false excuse, or with no excuse at all, were closely imprisoned in the citadel, being set free only on the payment of heavy sums of money. This dread hung over them all as a perpetual possibility.

Far worse still was the terror of being some day suddenly despatched to the "black fortress," Bitche, where large numbers of British prisoners pined in a more grim confinement than at Verdun. The tales of Bitche dungeons, of Bitche horrors, which from time to time filtered round to those who lived in Verdun, read now like stories of mediæval days.

Roy was still at Verdun. Every effort to get a passport for him had failed.

During the autumn of 1805, not many weeks before the Battle of Trafalgar, a fresh blow fell.

Roy had felt his captivity much, boyishly gay though he was, and rarely out of spirits. But he had had Denham all through, and Denham, though commonly regarded as a grave man of dignified demeanour, had been to Roy the most delightful of companions. From the spring of 1803 to the autumn of 1805 the two had seldom been apart for a whole day. Denham had been not only Roy's elder brother, but his friend, his tutor, his playfellow.

"I don't know, for my part, what Roy would do without you," Colonel Baron sometimes said gratefully to Ivor. And Ivor would reply, "Roy is as much to me as I am to him." But though in a sense this was true, it could not be true in all senses.

September came, and with it a fresh device of the pork-dealer's son. General Wirion decided to send a large party of the Verdun détenus away to Valenciennes, a distance of about one hundred and fifty miles. No reasons were vouchsafed, and the choice made of those who should go was entirely arbitrary.

On Saturday, September 17th, the order went forth that about forty of them were to leave on the Monday, only two days later.

Early on Monday morning the first batch started, being seen off at the gates by a crowd of their English friends; and that afternoon, at appel, forty more were desired to hold themselves in readiness to start on the Wednesday following.

The second forty departed; and on Thursday another announcement was made to a third forty, that they too must prepare to depart on the Saturday.

Upon some who were concerned the blow fell a few hours earlier. Although Wirion curtly declined to inform the détenus themselves which among them would be despatched next, he did take the trouble to send lists of their names to some leading tradesmen in the town. From those quarters information might be obtained, though many of the détenus proudly refused so to seek it.

"Roy, I want a word with you," said Denham, towards the evening of Wednesday, putting his head into the salon. "Come here."

"Just in a minute. May I get—?"

"Never mind anything else. Come to my room."

Roy obeyed at once.

"Shut the door. I have something to say." Ivor motioned the boy to a second chair. "I have just seen Curtis."

The tone was unusual. Roy looked hard at Denham.

"Is something the matter?"

"Yes. Wirion!"—significantly.

"Do tell me."

"Mrs. Curtis was so anxious about this Valenciennes business, that she persuaded her husband to see one of the shop lists."

"I know. Papa said he'd have nothing to do with that way of finding out."

"No. But Curtis went, and—"

"Are they ordered of? O I'm sorry! Mrs. Curtis is so jolly—like a boy almost. I shall miss them ever so much. Are they really going? What a bother!"

"Yes."

"Anybody else?"

"Yes."

Denham's grave eyes met Roy's, with an expression which somehow sent Roy's heart down and down into his very shoes. The boy sat and stared—aghast and wordless.

"I want you to know beforehand, not to be taken by surprise. For your mother's sake you must bear it bravely."

Roy had grown pale, and his gaze spoke of dismay and incredulity.

"But you don't mean—you! Not you!"

"Yes."

"Den!"

"It is not difficult to find a cause. You see, we have held aloof from Wirion's set, and have declined his invitations. Also, I have managed to hold back one or two young fellows from those miserable gaming-tables. No doubt he prefers to have me out of the way for a while. It may be only for a few weeks. But—"

Roy walked off to the window, and stood with his back to Denham. Silence lasted fully five minutes. Denham remained where he was, looking sadly enough towards the boy. He had much to do, but Roy was his first consideration; and he knew from his own sensations what the parting would be to the other.

"Come," he said at length. "It can't be helped. And—I don't know what you feel about it, but I have an objection to letting Wirion see that he can make us unhappy."

Roy came back slowly.

"That—brute!" he burst out, choking over the word.

"Yes—I know. There's no sort of excuse for him. Roy, I want a promise from you."

"What?"

"You know the sort of thing that is going on here. Promise me faithfully that, whatever happens, you will keep clear of the gaming-tables. You may be tempted, and I shall not be at hand to look after you."

Roy was silent—perhaps because of those last words. "Promise. I can depend upon your word."

"I do—promise," Roy said with difficulty.

"And you will do your best to keep up your mother's spirits? You must be the same plucky fellow with them that you have been all along with me. Don't make any difference. They will need it now more than ever."

"It's so beastly hard," muttered Roy.

"Yes," and a pause. "There's one thought that's sometimes a comfort to me. Perhaps it might be to you too. Whatever happens, one may remember still—that God is over all. Things won't go on for ever like this."

The interview was getting to be too much for both of them. Denham drew one hand across his forehead. "There!—that will do. No need to say any more. Now I must go and speak to your father."

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

Three days later the third company of forty détenus quitted Verdun for Valenciennes. Roy and Colonel Baron were at the gate, with many others, in the early morning, to see the detachment off upon their enforced pilgrimage. Denham had never held his head higher, or looked more composed, and Roy did his best to imitate his friend. But he found it hard work. This was not like any ordinary farewell. He and Denham alike knew themselves to be in the power of an unscrupulous martinet, behind whom was another equally unscrupulous and quite irresponsible despot. Neither could conjecture what might become of the other, or whether they might again meet before the close of the war; and each was sure that every possible impediment would be thrown in the way of their communicating by letter.

Roy returned with his father to M. Courant's house, a heavy sense of blank weighing upon them both. Ivor's was a personality which never failed to make itself felt, and he had the power of winning affection, without apparent effort. The difference made in their little circle by his departure was more than could beforehand have been imagined.

Not in their own little circle only. Many in Verdun knew that they had lost a valued friend that day; and even downstairs Denham was strangely missed. Somebody else, beside Roy, shed at night a few quiet tears, when nobody could see. Lucille herself was perplexed at the acute consciousness which clung to her of Captain Ivor's absence.

Somehow she had not of late thought a very great deal of that poor young De Bertrand, whose image once had filled her thoughts. Not that she forgot him, but other thoughts and other interests had taken possession of her mind.

CHAPTER XVII

IN THE YEAR 1807

MORE than eighteen months had dragged past since the day when Denham Ivor had been summarily despatched to Valenciennes.

Once or twice a letter from him had reached the Barons, but it was now long since the arrival of the last. Whether Denham remained yet at Valenciennes was a matter of supposition. For aught that his friends knew to the contrary, he might have been passed on to the grim fortress, Bitche, to Sédan, or elsewhere.

One day, in the spring of 1807, Roy stood upon the ramparts, gazing eagerly towards the nearest town gate. At fifteen he was much the same as he had been at thirteen; not so much taller as might have been expected, for he had grown but slowly. He looked as boyish as ever, with the same curly brown hair, honest grey eyes, and impulsive manner. Not quite so good-looking, perhaps, as in more childish days, but attractive enough. Few guessed him to be within three or four months of his sixteenth birthday. He was often taken for only fourteen.

To some extent habit does and must mean use. Four years out of a boy's life are a goodly slice of time; and Roy had now been nearly four years a captive. He might, and not seldom did, chafe and fume. Still, he had good health and unquenchable spirits; and however impatient he was by fits and starts, no one could have described him as unhappy. He had the gift of making the best of things, and a certain breezy spirit of philosophy stood him in good stead. Hard as it had been to find himself cut off from Molly for an indefinite period, harder still to lose Denham, he managed to enjoy life, finding entertainment in everything and everybody.

"I say! Hallo! There's something going on!" he said aloud.

Roy gazed hard, trying to make out the cause of that gathering throng round about the gate. Some unusual event seemed to be taking place.

Colonel Baron had gone into a neighbouring street on business, telling Roy that he would meet him again on the ramparts. But as Roy watched, the pull became too strong. Something certainly was happening. What if Colonel Baron had forgotten all about him, and had gone in that direction to discover what was being done?

Roy could endure himself no longer. He descended to the ground, set off full tilt, and speedily reached the outskirts of the crowd, running plump against the Rev. Charles Kinsland, who received the onslaught with a "Hallo, Roy!"

"I beg your pardon, sir. What's up?" demanded Roy breathlessly.

"A party of détenus back from Valenciennes, I believe," the young clergyman answered. "There was a report this morning in some quarters that we might expect them, and it seems to be true. Any friends of yours, I wonder? There they come through the gate."

Both pressed on, but Roy made the quicker advance, edging himself through the crowd with dexterity. The thought of Ivor had come up like a flash of lightning. Not that he expected to see Denham himself—the chance was too remote, the delight would be too supreme—but some news of him might be obtained. Somebody who had arrived would certainly have seen him, have talked with him. Roy might keep up his spirits and enjoy life, despite partings and deprivations; but no one who could have known how the boy's heart leaped at the very idea of hearing about Ivor, would ever have accused him of lack of feeling.

He forced his way to a good position near the gate, and scanned face after face of the returned wanderers. Many were familiar; but it was one, not many, that Roy wanted; and though he had resolutely assured himself that he did not expect, keen disappointment laid hold upon him when Ivor failed to appear.

Greetings between friends parted for eighteen months were passing warmly, and the buzz of voices was considerable. Suddenly Roy's glance fell upon a man standing somewhat apart, leaning against the wall. A little child lay asleep in his arms, and Roy's first impression was of a stranger who was awfully tired with the march. He actually gazed full at the face without recognition, so much was it altered—the features sharpened into a delicate carving in very pale bronze, like a profile on some rare old coin, and the dark eyes set in hollows. "Poor fellow! he does look done!" thought Roy, and he went nearer.

"I say, hadn't you better give me that little thing to hold?"