"And you—you are going to war?"
He could not quite believe it yet. He wanted confirmation.
"Yes, grandfather; I'm going to war. I couldn't stay out of it. Until my own country takes up arms I'll fight under another flag. When she does get into it I hope to fight under the Stars and Stripes."
A wonderful look came into the old man's face, a look of pride, of satisfaction, of unadulterated joy. His mouth twitched as though he desired to speak and could not. Then, suddenly, he thrust out his one arm and seized Pen's hand in a mighty and affectionate grip. In that moment the sorrow, the bitterness, the estrangement of years vanished, never to return.
"I am proud of you, sir!" he said. "You are worthy of your illustrious ancestors. You are maintaining the best traditions of Bannerhall."
"I'm glad you're pleased, grandfather."
"Pleased is too mild an expression. I am rejoiced. It is the proudest moment of my life." He stepped away from the pillar, straightened his shoulders, and gazed benignantly on his grandson. "Not that I especially desire," he added after a moment, "that you should be subjected to the hazards and the hardships of a soldier's life. That goes without saying. But it is the hazards and the hardships he faces that make the soldier a hero. Death itself has no terrors for the patriotic brave. 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.'"
His eyes wandered away into some alluring distance and his thought into the fields of memory, and for a moment he was silent. Nor did Pen speak. He felt that the occasion was too momentous, the event too sacred to be spoiled by unnecessary words from him.
It was the colonel who at last broke the silence.
"It is not an opportune time," he said, "to speak of the past. But, as to the future, you may rest in confidence. While you are absent your mother shall be looked after. Her every want shall be supplied. It will be my delight to attend to the matter personally."