"And I don't know," said Tom Loring, "that I'd care to be the god who sits in it."
While Maggie Dennison walked with Harry in the shrubbery, and the group on the terrace talked of the god in the car, on the other side of the world a man sat looking out of a window under a new-risen sun. Presently his eyes dropped, and they fell on a wooden cross that stood below the window. A cheap wreath of artificial flowers decked it—a wreath one of Ruston's company had carried over seas from the grave of his dead wife, and had brought out of his treasures to honour young Sir Walter's grave; because he and they all had loved the boy. And, as Maggie Dennison had said, Ruston also was sorry. His eyes dwelt on the cross, while he seemed to hear again Walter's merry laugh and confident ringing tones, and to see his brave, lithe figure as he sprang on his horse and cantered ahead of the party, eager for the road, or the sport, aye, or the fight. For a moment Willie Ruston's head fell, then he got up—the cross had sent his thoughts back to the far-off land he had left. He walked across the little square room to an iron-bound box; unlocking it, he searched amid a pile of papers and found a woman's letter. He began to read it, but, when he had read but half, he laid it gently down again among the papers and closed and locked the box. His face was white and set, his eyes gleamed as if in anger. Suddenly he muttered to himself,
"I loved that boy. I never thought of it killing him."
And on thought of the boy came another, and for an instant the stern mouth quivered, and he half-turned towards the box again. Then he jerked his head, muttering again; yet his face was softer, till a heavy frown grew upon it, and he pressed his hand for the shortest moment to his eyes.
It was over—over, though it was to come again. Treading heavily on the floor—there was no lightness left in his step—he reached the door, and found a dozen mounted men waiting for him, and a horse held for him. He looked round on the men; they were fine fellows, tall and stalwart, ready for anything. Slowly a smile broke on his face, an unmirthful smile, that lasted but till he had said,
"Well, boys, we must teach these fellows a little lesson to-day."
His followers laughed and joked, but none joined him where he rode at their head. The chief was a man to follow, not to ride with, they said, half in liking, half in dislike, wholly in trust and deference. Yet in old days he had been good to ride with too.
The car was moving on. Maybe Tom Loring was not very wrong, when he said that he would not care to be the man who sat in it.