"The enemy?"
"Yes. The battle won't begin till sex finds them out."
"What then?"
"Then they will have to be told what I was not told in time."
"What would you say?"
"I"—the hoarse voice shook—"I'd tell them how full of holes their armor is."
"Uncle John, you'll never be so cruel."
Val, behind the big chair, lifted her scared face in the shadow, looking on as a woman might at a duel fought for her.
"It is the only kindness. When I thought I shouldn't live to see them old enough to know, I wrote the matter down. Ha!"—he laughed wearily—"in the form of a last will and testament; a legacy from a father who will leave them nothing else except—" He got up and turned away, coughing. He walked up and down the room again, with dragging step and bent head. He stopped suddenly and laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. "I see too plainly the lesson of the past not to hand my knowledge on. It's all I'm good for now. This fair future for the race that I've believed in, that I've foreseen so long—" He was interrupted by the painful cough, but conquered it an instant. "Not only have I always known I could have no personal share in it, not even through my children—"
The cough gripped him again, and he turned away with handkerchief to his lips.