"It would make no difference." Monsieur Dubois shook his head decidedly. "It would be set aside, my young friend. Nothing can be allowed to stand in the way of matters of State."
Fenton was silent for a moment. Then he stood up and straightened his shoulders. He felt as if he must be alone at once. "Monsieur Dubois," he said, "you have spoken to me about the one aim you have—to get back to France. You have been very kind to me. Will you permit me to reciprocate ever so little and advance the necessary means?"
The old man shook his head and smiled. "They may not take me back in La Belle France. I am an old man. But here, young and old, all will get a chance. I shall stay, monsieur."
He too rose and squared his shoulders. His frame was a little bent, his hands trembled, but there was a look of profound determination and of profounder pride in his eyes as he shook back his tousled grey hair. "Maybe we shall meet at the front, Monsieur Fenton," he said.
They did. It was two months afterward in a field hospital along the frontier. A shell had shattered the musician's leg. He did not recognise Fenton, and babbled incoherently of France and freedom.
*****
Leaving the lodgings of Monsieur Dubois, Fenton hurried to the palace. Varden, he felt sure, would be there.
The streets were strangely different from what he had known them when, barely a week before, he had arrived in Serajoz fur the first time. The city seemed to be one gigantic military camp. Troops passed and repassed. The rumble of artillery was a familiar sound, and occasioned little specific interest. The crowds were smaller already. Thousands of men had enlisted. They had been talking about war for months. They were prepared.
Fenton found Varden at the palace. The latter was coming down the corridor which led from the personal suite of the King. Silently Varden gripped the hand of the Canadian, and for a moment did not speak. Then, "Peter is dead," he said in a low tone.
Fenton asked the question very quietly: "When?"