McCalloway rose slowly from his chair and, after standing for a moment with shoulders that drooped from their military erectness, went with an inelastic step to the corner of the room and came back, carrying a sword.
"There is also another reason based on personal partiality," he added. "I knew him so well that after the world heard of his suicide—and after my own misfortunes forced me into retirement, I might often have hired my sword because of my familiarity with his military thought."
Boone Wellver saw the throat work spasmodically, and wondered what it all meant as the carefully schooled words went on again, with a gauged steadiness.
"I have admired your own record, General Prince. I owe you frankness, but I have chapters in my life which I cannot confide to you. Nevertheless, I am glad we have met. Look at that blade." He held out the sword. In the leap and flicker of the firelight Boone could catch the glint of a hilt that sent out the sparkle of jewelry and inlaid enamel. Slowly General Prince slid the sabre from the scabbard, and bent forward, studying an inscription upon the damascened steel itself. For a moment he held it reverently before him, then straightened up and his voice trembled with a note of mystified wonderment.
"But this—" he said incredulously, "this is Dinwiddie's sabre—presented by—"
McCalloway smiled stiffly, but he held up a hand as if entreating silence.
"It is his sword," he answered, but dully and without ardour, "and, if it means anything to you—he knew the facts of my own life, both the open and the hidden—and he trusted me enough to leave that blade in my keeping."
"To me, you required no recommendation, sir," said Basil Prince slowly. "If you had needed it, this would be sufficient. You had the confidence, even the love it seems, of the greatest military genius of our age."
On the following morning, Boone made his farewells, reluctantly as one who has glimpsed magic and who sets his face again to dull realities.
The Southerner, who had laid down his sword when its cause was lost and the Celt who had sheathed his, when his name was tarnished, stood together in the crystal-clear air of the heights, looking down from a summit over crags and valleys that sparkled with the rime of frost.