"Do you suppose, General," inquired Colonel Wallifarro suddenly, "that McCalloway confided the purpose of his journey to the boy?"
Prince shook his head positively. "I am quite sure that he has confided it to no one—but I am equally sure that Boone has guessed it by now."
"In that event I think it would tremendously interest him to read that article."
In the log house, where he had now no companionship, Boone received the narrative.
The place was very empty. Twilight had come on with its dispiriting shadows, and Boone lighted a lamp, and since the night was cool he had also kindled a few logs on the hearth.
For a long while he sat there after reading and rereading the description of the fight along the Manchurian River. His hands rested on his knees, and his fingers held the clipping.
On the table a forgotten law book lay open at a chapter on torts, but the young man's eyes were fixed on the blaze, in whose fitful leapings he was picturing, "the thunders through the foothills; tufts of fleecy shrapnel spread along the empty plain"—and in the picture he always saw one face, dominated by a pair of eyes that could be granite-stern or soft as mossy waters.
Finally he rose and unlocked a closet from which he reverently took out a scabbarded sword. Dinwiddie had entrusted that blade to McCalloway, and McCalloway had in turn entrusted it to him. Out there he was using a less ornate sabre!
The young mountaineer slipped the blade out of the sheath and once more read the engraved inscription.
Something rose in his throat, and he gulped it down. He spoke aloud, and his words sounded unnatural in the empty room.