“Yes, sir,” said the maid. “And what are you going to have? There's nothing in the house now.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Lavender, startled. “A cup of coffee and a slice of bread, thank you. I can always eat at any time.”
The maid went away muttering to herself, and bringing the eggs, plumped them down before the young man, who ate them more hastily than words could tell.
“I mean,” he said, “to do all I can in this fort-night to build up my strength. I shall eat almost continuously. They shall never break me.” And, reaching out, he took the remainder of the loaf.
Mr. Lavender watched it disappear with a certain irritation which he subdued at once. “How selfish of me,” he thought, “even to think of eating while this young hero is still hungry.”
“Are you, then,” he said, “the victim of some religious or political plot?”
“Both,” replied the young man, leaning back with a sigh of repletion, and wiping his mouth. “I was released to-day, and, as I said, I shall be court-martialled again to-day fortnight. It'll be two years this time. But they can't break me.”
Mr. Lavender gasped, for at the word “courtmartialled” a dreadful doubt had assailed him.
“Are you,” he stammered—“you are not—you cannot be a Conscientious Objector?”
“I can,” said the young man.