“Yes, but we knew nothing about it then, and we really mean it now,” said Jock. “If we do it for ourselves together, it will put us on our honour to each other, and to Christ our Captain, and that’s what we want. Lay hold of my hand.”
The two boys, with clasped hands, and grave, steadfast eyes, with one voice, repeated together—
“We, John Lucas Brownlow and Cecil Fitzroy Evelyn, promise with all our hearts manfully to fight under Christ’s banner, and continue His faithful soldiers and servants to our lives’ end. Amen.”
Then Cecil touched Lucas’s brow with his lips, and said—
“Fellow-soldiers, Brownlow.”
“Brothers in arms,” responded Jock.
It was one of those accesses of deep enthusiasm, and even of sentiment, which modern cynicism and false shame have not entirely driven out of youth. Their hearts were full; and Jock, the stronger, abler, and more enterprising had always exercised a fascination over his friend, who was absolutely enchanted to find him become an ally instead of a tempter, and to be no longer pulled two opposite ways.
“Ought we not to say a prayer to make it really firm? We can’t stand alone, you know,” he said, diffidently.
“If you like; if you know one,” said Jock.
Cecil knelt down and said the Lord’s Prayer and the collect for the Fourth Epiphany Sunday.