"The Japanese decoration of the Rising Sun," said the Grand Duke, gravely and acquiescently bowing his head. "Why not?"
Then, turning back his heavy civilian coat, his fingers sought the spot where should have been the Cross of St. George, and came away empty.
"I had forgotten," he observed drily, "I no longer wear a uniform—nor have I any longer the authority. You, Brussilov—with you it is different."
So the man who still held precarious reins over a runaway army detached the clasp of his ornament and pinned the two side by side on the unstirring breast of the dead man; the emblem of honour he had gained in war on Russia and that which rewarded the giving of his life to Russia.
The Grand Duke turned his gaze on Boone Wellver. "Brussilov tells me that this man was as a father to you ... that you had his permission, when he was dead, to inspect papers revealing his true identity.... Is that true?"
"It is true, sir," came the low reply.
"Then on my own responsibility I am going to share that secret with General Brussilov—implicitly trusting his discretion. He"—the tall Romanoff indicated with a gesture the body of the man who lay dead—"he told me, when he came to me. He was one of the world's greatest soldiers. Once before a casket, draped with flags and supposedly containing his body, was borne to the grave on a gun caisson—and a court paid tribute." The Grand Duke paused and spoke again in the manner of one challenging contradiction. "But he was not buried. He had not died except to the eyes of the world which was his right. His name was Hector Dinwiddie."
For a little while no one spoke, and at last Brussilov, with a reverent hand, lowered the plate over the white face. "Come, gentlemen," he said, with a brusque masking of agitation, "the burial detachment is ready."