"My country! 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing!"
Here his voice faltered, his radiant face drooped, and his darkening eyes turned beseechingly in my direction.
In a choking voice I finished the verse, as I had once before finished it for him:
"Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride,
From every mountainside
Let freedom ring!"
His head was on the pillow when I finished, but his fingers still grasped the flag.
"Gerald," said the princess, tenderly, "do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," fluttered from his pale lips.
"And are you contented?"
He pressed her hand slightly.
"Would you rather die, or live to grow up and forget your country, as you surely would do if you lived all your young life among strangers?"