yellow fog. This silence, as John
knew, was an unwritten law. The small boy selected to sing to the
School, as the representative of the School, must have every chance.
Let his voice be heard! The master playing the accompaniment paused
and glanced at his pupil. John, however, was not looking at him; he
was looking within at a John he despised--a poltroon, a deserter about
to run from his first engagement. He knew that the introduction to the
song was being played a second time, and he saw the Head Master
whispering to his guest. Paralysed with terror, John's intuition told
him that the Head Master was murmuring, "That's the nephew of John
Verney. Of course you know him?" And the Field Marshal nodded. And
then he looked at John, as John had seen him look at Lawrence, with the
same flare of recognition in the steel-grey eyes. Out of the confused
welter of faces shone that pair of eyes--twin beacons flashing their
message of encouragement and salvation to a fellow-creature in
peril--at least, so John interpreted that piercing glance. It seemed
to say, far plainer than words, "I have stood alone as you stand; I
have felt my knees as wax; I have wished to run away. But--_I didn't_.
Nor must you. Open your mouth and sing!"

So John opened his mouth and sang. The first verse of the lyric went
haltingly.

Scaife growled to Desmond, "He _is_ going to make an ass of himself."

And Desmond, meeting Scaife's eyes, half thought that the speaker
wished that John would fail--that he grudged him a triumph. None the
less, the first verse, sung feebly, with wrong phrasing and imperfect
articulation, revealed the quality of the boy's voice; and this quality
Desmond recognized, as he would have recognized a fine painting or a
bit of perfect porcelain. All his short life his father had trained
him to look for and acclaim quality, whether in things animate or
inanimate. He caught hold of Scaife's arm.

"Make an ass of himself!" he whispered back. "Not he. But he may make
an ass of me."

Even as he spoke he was aware that tears were horribly near his eyes.
Some catch in John's voice, some subtle inflection, had smitten his
heart, even as the prophet smote the rock.

"Rot!" said Scaife, angrily.

He was angry, furiously angry, because he saw that Caesar was beyond
his reach, whirled innumerable leagues away by the sound of another's
voice. John had begun the second verse. He stared, as if hypnotized,
straight in