the
night appointed, he found there besides his host five of his
acquaintances: Will Ocklebourne, the eldest son of the railway magnate;
Vivian Ormsby, who at this time was a captain in the National Guard; Ned
Carnaby, the crack polo-player; Jack Lorrimer, a leader in athletics as
well as cotillions; and Harry Bent, the owner of the famous racing stud.
Without exception, the five, like Dick himself, were splendid specimens
of virile youth, and in their appearance amply justified the colonel's
choice.

Just before the party seated itself at the table, a servant entered with
a letter for Dick. He opened it eagerly, and a sprig of forget-me-not
fell into his hand. He folded this within the letter, which he had not
time at the moment to read. But he understood the message of the flower,
for the handwriting on the envelope was that of Dora Dundas. And he
sighed a little. The lust of adventure was in his blood, and the war
called him.

The dinner progressed tamely enough until the dessert was on the table.
Then, the colonel arose, and set forth his plans, and called for
volunteers to join him in this service to his country.

"Some of you--perhaps all--" he concluded, "are willing to go with me.
Let such as will stand up."

Instantly, Captain Ormsby was on his feet. He stood martially erect,
fingering his little, black mustache nervously, his dark eyes gleaming.
He was a handsome, slim, dark man of forty, with a slightly Jewish cast
of countenance, crimped black hair, parted in the centre, a large, but
well-shaped nose, a full, round chin, and a low, white forehead--a face
that suggested the Spaniard or the modern Greek Jew.... There came a
little outburst of applause from the fellow-guests, a recognition of his
promptness in acceptance of the colonel's offer.

Then, the others stood up together: Ocklebourne, Carnaby, Lorrimer,
Bent--all except Dick Swinton, the rector's son. The group turned
expectant eyes on him, awaiting his rising to complete the group. Yet, he
sat there with his fellow-officers standing, Captain Ormsby on one side
of him, Jack Lorrimer on the other, in the most prominent place in the
room, leaning back in his chair, with eyes downcast, and playing with his
knife nervously.

He seemed ashamed to look up, and was overcome by the unexpected
prominence into which he was thrown. He was deathly pale; but his mouth
expressed dogged determination.

"Not Swinton?" asked the colonel, reproachfully.

Dic