"Seven sons," he counted; "you make me tired! Why on earth don't you come to me? I take it d——d ill, Braith! How many times must I go over the same thing and explain to you that because I have money it is my duty to share it, and your duty and the duty of every American to share it with me? You can't get a cent, the city's blockaded, and the American Minister has his hands full with all the German riff-raff and deuce knows what! Why don't you act sensibly?"
"I—I will, Trent, but it's an obligation that perhaps I can never even in part repay, I'm poor and—"
"Of course you'll pay me! If I were a usurer I would take your talent for security. When you are rich and famous—"
"Don't, Trent—"
"All right, only no more monkey business."
He slipped a dozen gold pieces into the purse, and tucking it again under the mattress smiled at Braith.
"How old are you?" he demanded.
"Sixteen."
Trent laid his hand lightly on his friend's shoulder. "I'm twenty-two, and I have the rights of a grandfather as far as you are concerned. You'll do as I say until you're twenty-one."
"The siège will be over then, I hope," said Braith, trying to laugh, but the prayer in their hearts: "How long, O Lord, how long!" was answered by the swift scream of a shell soaring among the storm-clouds of that December night.