“You’ll make a fight for it, then?” he asked, eagerly.
Ughtred rose up. His eyes were lit with inward fire, and in his tone there trembled a note of splendid passion.
“A fight for it! Ay, we shall fight in such a way, my friend, that all Europe shall hide her face, and feel the shame of the carnage and misery for which her miserable selfishness is responsible. There is one thing about my people, Brand, which is divine, and, thank God, it is in my own blood, too, notwithstanding my years of exile. We love our country, our hills and mountains, our corn-fields and vineyards, our villages and our queer old towns. It’s a wonderful love, Brand, and I don’t believe you highly-civilized people in your rich, smoke-stained Western countries know what it means. I tell you it’s a passion here. We Thetians love our country as we love our womenkind. The footstep of the invader is seduction—when it comes there will be lit such a fire of passionate hate from the Balkans to the northern frontier that only death or victory will quench. You will see them come to arms, Brand, these children of mine, whom God protect, young and old, boys and their grandfathers! A fight for it, did you say? I promise you, man, that if this blow falls, and we are conquered, you shall come here afterwards, and you shall find an empty country, a blackened chaos of ruins.”
An answering flash of enthusiasm lit up Brand’s face for a moment. But the man was practical to the core.
“What number of trained men can you rely upon?” he asked.
“Fifteen thousand,” the King answered. “I know every village company. Every regiment I have drilled myself. They have old Martinis, but they are born shots, and born horsemen. Lately, too, we have gone through a course of carbine instruction. I could put five thousand mounted infantry into the field who could surprise you.”
“And artillery?”
The King groaned.
“We have done what we could,” he answered, “but as for heavy guns, we have none. Listen, I will give you a sketch of my idea for defending the Balkans.”