And every blade made an arc of glittering light as it came to the salute. It could not have been better done for a field-marshal.
No fuller cup of joy was ever drunk by mortal. The tears welled up in Hugh John's eyes as he stood there in the pride of the honour done to him. To be knighted was nothing to this. He had been acknowledged as a soldier by the greatest soldier there. Hugh John did not doubt that this glorious being was he who had led the Greys in the charge at Waterloo. Who else could have done that thing?
He was no longer a little dusty boy. He stood there glorified, ennobled. The world was almost too full.
"Eyes front! Slope swords!" rang the words once more.
The pageant passed by. Only the far drum-throb came back as he stood speechless and motionless, till his father rode up on his way home, and seeing the boy asked him what he was doing there. Then for all reply a little clicking hitch came suddenly in his throat. He wanted to laugh, but somehow instead the tears ran down his cheeks, and he gasped out a word or two which sounded like somebody else's voice.
"I'm not hurt, father," he said, "I'm not crying. It was only that the Scots Greys saluted me. And I can't help it, father. It goes tick-tick in my throat, and I can't keep it back. But I'm not crying, father! I'm not indeed!"
Then the stern man gathered the great soldier up and set him across his saddle—for Hugh John was alone, the others having long ago gone back with Janet Sheepshanks. And his father did not say anything, but let him sit in front with the famous sword in his hands which had brought about such strange things. And even thus rode our hero home—Hugh John Picton no more, but rather General Napoleon Smith; nor shall his rank be questioned on any army roster of strong unblenching hearts.
But late that night Hugh John stole down the hushed avenue, his bare feet pattering through the dust which the dew was making cool. He climbed the gate and stood under the elm, with the wind flapping his white nightgown like a battle flag. Then clasping his hands, he took the solemn binding oath of his religion, "The Scots Greys saluted me. May I die-and-rot if ever I am dasht-mean again!"