“Yes, they are soldiers. One of them—the one who spoke to you this morning—is one of the kind skilled in making forts and in attacking them. He was with Wrexham in the wars. The other is an ordinary soldier who was under my command. Both are very brave and have seen many battles.”
“But why have they darker faces than you? At least, their faces are not much darker than yours, Harilek, but their skins are, as I can tell by their hands and feet. But your face is only dark from sun, for your skin is white like mine. I could see that when your hat was off. Are they of a different race?”
“Yes. They live in a very hot country which is ruled by my people.”
“And were you a commander of many men there?”
“During the war I was a commander of a thousand men, like the one who helped us in the gate.”
This was a bit of an exaggeration considering the frequently pitiable proportions of my battalion in the more hectic days of the war. Still, at the dépôt I once commanded nearly thirteen hundred, so the average was not too bad. Besides, “commander of a thousand” sounded something like an old Greek title I remembered, and I couldn’t go into details of modern military organization.
“‘Commander of a thousand.’ Then you must be a big chief.”
“Not a bit. Only quite a little one. My country is very big.”
“Well, when you were older—for you are not old, any of you—you would have been a commander of many more—a really big chief,” said she, with feminine ignorance and optimism.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. But, anyway, I gave up being a soldier, and was going back to my land in my own country where my sister lives. Then Wrexham persuaded me to come with him to look for these hills which were once seen by one of his ancestors.”