“Heroic boy! What a noble spirit of self-devotion he had shown! resolving to brave all the fatigue, the danger, the cold and darkness, rather than permit the ruin which would come if he deserted his post.
“There is a beautiful poem on the subject by Miss Carey. I will repeat a few of the last verses.”
Then Mr. Lacelle repeated in a clear, mellow voice, whose slight foreign accent lent it an additional charm to Eric’s ear,—
“So faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea,—
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company.
He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe, warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother;
Of himself as dying—and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last;
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.
“The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all the night.
And now she watches the pathway,
As yestereve she had done;
But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?
Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door;
Her child is coming home, but not
As ever he came before.
“‘He is dead!’ she cries; ‘my darling!’
And the startled father hears,
And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears;
Till a glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife—
‘Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,
And God has saved his life!’
So there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy,
And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.
“‘Tis many a day since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave, and true, and good;
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.
They have many a valiant hero
Remembered through the years,
But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.
And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told to the child on the knee,
So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea.”
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They had now come to the Y, an inlet of the Zuyder Zee, where several of the men under Mr. Lacelle were at work.
“Here we are,” said Eric, gladly. “Here we are! Now for my ‘thrilling experience,’ as the newspapers say.”
There was a tent close by, into which they stepped to change their dress for the diver’s costume.
“Nobody would know me now, I am sure,” said Eric to himself, when, with much difficulty, and considerable help from the attendants, he emerged from the tent arrayed in the suit. “I can hardly drag my feet along, they are so heavy; and I’m decidedly glad that my every-day hat is not like this helmet.”
Mr. Lacelle had given him particular directions about diving, and now the life-line and air-hose were adjusted, and the brave boy stood beside the professional diver, waiting for the descent.
The signal was given, and soon Eric was going down underneath the blue, cold waves. He could not see Mr. Lacelle; it seemed as if he were never to stop going down: the water sang around his ears; and seeing nothing but water made him giddy and faint. He thought he must certainly smother, and, for an instant, was thoroughly afraid.