“I had not decided yet,” said Colonel Forrester, gravely; and Fred noticed that his father seemed to have suddenly grown rigid and stern in manner and tone of voice. “What do you say, Fred? should you like to be a soldier?”
“Yes, father; like you have been.”
“No, no, Fred, my boy!” cried his mother.
“Madam,” said their guest, “ladies do not always understand Latin, but a certain Roman poet called Horace once said, ‘Dulce et decorum est pro patriâ mori’. Let me modify it by saying, ‘to offer in time of need to die for your country.’ It does not follow that a man who fights for his home and liberty dies. Good lad. Be a soldier.”
“I will, sir,” said Fred, firmly. “Father didn’t die, mother.”
“No, nor you shall not, my boy. There, now, we know one another, and I hope we shall become well-tried friends.”
“But I don’t know you yet, sir. You have not told me your name.”
The visitor clapped Fred on the shoulder again, and there was a merry, kindly light in his eyes as he cried—
“Come, I like this, Forrester. Your Coombeland boys are the genuine, frank English stuff. Fred, my lad, I like your out-spoken ways. From some lads it would have been insolence, but from you it seems sturdy, honest independence. You may know me for the present, my boy, as Captain Miles.”
“Miles, a soldier,” said Fred to himself but the visitor heard him.