III
The Parson slid down into the darkness.
"Piper," he cried, hoarse and dry. "I believe—I believe these lads will win through. It's God's battle. He must help."
"He will, sir," replied the old man, firm as faith.
"I'm a clergyman. You're a good man. This is a desperate business.
Will you give us your blessing?"
He was down on his knees, in his white shirt, his sword a gleam of silver on the slabs before him.
"Kit."
The boy, swift to grasp his meaning, knelt beside him, pulling Blob after him.
An arm stole round him; his stole round Blob.
So they knelt in the twilight, hugging close in that aweful sense of loneliness that comes to men when the Gates of Death are seen to swing back to let them through.
Kit thought of his Confirmation six months ago.
Now the end was come—so soon.
Well, well, he had often died before. And how clearly it all came back to him, this final stage in the little pilgrimage, these last few steps, solemn, beautiful, and slow, up to the familiar threshold; then the old door, the old smile, and—the old forgetfulness.
He had no regrets, and was strangely calm, strangely uplifted. He could look back without shame, and forward without fear. Now he was thankful that in these days of his ordeal he had been true to himself and to his trust. He had done his best. There was little more to do. That little should be done as became the son of his father.