he was just material for description. He was, he is remarkable. Most
remarkable in this, he was not ashamed of his son."

"Do please let that part alone. I want to know what he was doing, hiding
away by himself all these years? I believe he is an impostor!"

"We came to that, of course; though somehow I forgave him before he could
answer the question. In the long watch beside him I got very close to him.
It was not possible to believe him a deserter, a sneak. Can you take my
word for his answer? It was given as a death-bed confession and he is
living."

"I would take your word for anything except yourself!" Moya did not smile,
or think what she was saying.

"That answer cleared him, in my mind, with something over to the credit of
blind, stupid heroism. He is not a clever man. But, speaking as one who
has teen face to face with the end of things, I can say that I know of no
act of his that should prevent his returning to his family--if he had a
family--not even his deserting them for twenty years. _If_, I say!

"When the soldiers found us we were too far gone to realize the issue that
was upon us. He was the first to take it in. It was on the march home, at
night, he touched me and began speaking low in our corner of the tent. 'As
we came in here, so we go out again, and so we stay,' he said. I told him
it could not be. To suppress what I had learned would make the whole of
life a lie, a coward's lie. That knowledge belonged to my mother. I must
render it up to her. To do otherwise would be to treat her like a child
and to meddle with the purposes of God. 'No honest man robs another of his
secrets,' he said. He was very much excited. She was the only one now to