of the Czar are being choked into the
muffled growl of despair. Doggedly the Russian is giving back.'"

"Do you suppose, General," inquired Colonel Wallifarro suddenly, "that
McCalloway confided the purpose of his journey to the boy?"

Prince shook his head positively. "I am quite sure that he has confided
it to no one--but I am equally sure that Boone has guessed it by now."

"In that event I think it would tremendously interest him to read that
article."

In the log house, where he had now no companionship, Boone received the
narrative.

The place was very empty. Twilight had come on with its dispiriting
shadows, and Boone lighted a lamp, and since the night was cool he had
also kindled a few logs on the hearth.

For a long while he sat there after reading and rereading the
description of the fight along the Manchurian River. His hands rested on
his knees, and his fingers held the clipping.

On the table a forgotten law book lay open at a chapter on torts, but
the young man's eyes were fixed on the blaze, in whose fitful leapings
he was picturing, "the thunders through the foothills; tufts of fleecy
shrapnel spread along the empty plain"--and in the picture he always saw
one face, dominated by a pair of eyes that could be granite-stern or
soft as mossy waters.

Finally he rose and unlocked a closet from which he reverently took out
a scabbarded sword. Dinwiddie had entrusted that blade to McCalloway,
and McCalloway had in turn entrusted it to him. Out there he was using a
less ornate sabre!

The young mountaineer slipped the blade out of the sheath and once more
read the engraved inscription.

Something rose in his throat, and he gulped it down. He spoke aloud, and
his words sounded unnatural in the empty room.

"The Emperor of China sent for him--and he wouldn't go," said the boy.
"The Emperor of Japan sent for him--and he couldn't refuse. That's the
character of gentleman that's spent years trying to make a man of me."

Suddenly Boone laid the sword on the table and dropped on his knees
beside it, with his hands clasped over the hilt.

"Almighty God," he prayed, "give me the strength to make good--and not
disappoint him."

* * * * *

It was a heavy hearted young man who presented himself the next night at
the house of Cyrus Spradling, and one who went as a penitent to the
confessional.

Once more the father sat on the porch alone with his twilight pipe, and
once m