He had not perhaps hitherto been more disposed to put himself into the place of another than most boys of thirteen; but the events of the last few months had tended to make him thoughtful; and close intercourse with Ivor could hardly fail to pull him mentally upwards.

Denham was not only considerably better educated and better read than the average young officer of his day—a matter for congratulation in respect of Roy's present education—but also his intellectual gifts were well above the average level. The main force of the man lay, however, rather in the direction of character than of pure intellect. There was about him a soldierly directness and simplicity, and a thoroughness which often belongs to that type of nature. Whatever might befall, he would do his duty, not only with no thought of consequences to himself, but in the most direct and complete mode possible.

He was a good man as well as a most gallant soldier, and that in the best sense of the word. He was one who might say little, but who would at all costs do what he believed to be right. He was honourable, true, pure-minded, chivalrous towards women, tender towards little children, reverent and faithful towards his God. He was indomitable in courage, when he faced a foe; but so soon as fighting ceased he would be the first to succour a wounded enemy. All this means largely, as has been earlier stated, that Denham Ivor had taken shape under the influence and the example of John Moore. Ivor was the pupil, Moore the master.

The prolonged banishment from England and captivity in France were a terrible trial to him; not only because he was cut off indefinitely from the girl whom he loved with whole-hearted devotion, but because also he was cut off in his young full vigour from every hope of promotion and honour, and debarred from serving under the Commander whom he loved with a devotion no less whole-hearted. Yet he seldom spoke about the greatness of the trouble. It seemed as if his spirit of soldierly obedience had taught him submission to the Divine Will.

It is easy to see that a friendship of this kind could not fail to be good for Roy. And the friendship was not such in name only, for there were advantages on both sides. Much as Ivor could do for the lad, in the way of teaching him and keeping him out of mischief, there was an opposite view of the matter. Roy, by his light-heartedness and his spirit of unconquerable fun, could and did do much to lighten the weight of the young Guardsman's wearisome captivity.

Thus far Roy had done it, not knowing. Now the fact had dawned upon him, as a novel idea, that he might be some little help to Ivor. He was delighted; yet almost immediately he found the task less easy than when he had carried it out unconsciously.

The journey from Fontainebleau to Verdun, a matter of one hundred and seventy miles or more, would be no great matter in these days of steam-power, but it was a considerable matter in those times of slow travelling. It seemed to weigh upon Ivor's spirits more than anything had yet weighed upon them; or Denham was less successful in hiding what he really felt. Mrs. Baron was brighter than for months past; her relief at not being forced to leave her husband or to part yet with Roy tending to cheerfulness; and Colonel Baron, glad to see her happy, was the same himself. Roy as usual was in good spirits. Ivor alone appeared to have parted with his elasticity. He did not give in to the mood of depression, but it was patent enough to Mrs. Baron, whose concerned gaze wandered often in his direction.

No one except Ivor himself could know the haunting vision of Polly Keene, which floated before his eyes, through all those miles of driving, driving, ever farther away from where he craved to be. He might respond readily to Roy's chatter; but so soon as silence recurred, up again would come that picture of Polly, with her soft velvet eyes, her delicate colouring, her arch smile. And then he would hear the tender yielding in her voice, as she confessed that she did like Captain Ivor—well, just a little! and that she might perhaps be willing to marry him—well, some day!

Out of this Denham would awake to the dreary flat of the surrounding country, in its wintry colouring; and the wonder would suggest itself—how many years might not creep slowly by before that could ever be? He might even grow old and grey in this miserable banishment before he should see Polly again. Why not?

In those times wars had been wont to last in one unbroken stretch, for such periods as seven years, ten years, twenty years, thirty years.

Would Polly be content to wait for him?

This question took him by surprise one day, with nothing especial to call it forth. Ivor had not before so much as thought of the reverse possibility. The idea that she might not be willing to wait came freshly; but having once come, it did not soon depart.

He never afterwards lost the impression of that moment. The scene around was deeply stamped upon his mind, in connection with the one thought.

They had just reached the end of a stage, and were entering a small town, where fresh horses would be in waiting. Ivor was listening to Roy, responding in a half-absent fashion, and gazing down the street, when, without prelude or warning, that query burst upon him.

Would Polly indeed be willing to wait? Did she care enough? She was very young; hardly more than a child in age. If he were to be years away from her, the two never meeting, letters seldom passing between them, could he expect—would it even be fair and reasonable to expect—that he should remain enshrined in her heart, as surely as she would remain enshrined in his? Polly had known him intimately but a few weeks, though their acquaintance extended farther back; and impressions made upon the mind and imagination at seventeen are not always deep or lasting. Moreover, Polly was exceedingly pretty, quite unusually charming. Other men would wish to marry her. Could he expect such constancy on her part, as to wait through long years for her absent lover, refusing every other chance that might present itself? What would her grandmother think and say? Polly, with all her charms, was a portionless maiden.

The whole question rolled itself out before Denham's mental gaze, as they drove along the chief street of the place, exciting less attention than commonly on such occasions. With his bodily eyes he saw little, yet in a manner he was aware that a considerable stir prevailed, and he heard, almost without hearing, Roy's rapid questions.

"I don't in the least know," he replied mechanically, as they came to a halt before the inn.

"Den, look! What a lot of people outside the maison de ville! What's it all about? And don't some of them look miserable? What are they after?"

"I have not the slightest idea. Something seems to be wrong. Easy to find out."

The mystery was soon explained. This happened to be a day appointed for drawing for the conscription; and around the door of the little town hall opposite were gathered the near relatives of the young fellows who were eligible. There was no mistaking the dread written upon their faces.

One woman in particular drew notice. She was bent and old in appearance, with grey hair, though very likely not beyond middle age; and she wore a short, very full skirt, with a long-waisted bodice, and big brass buckles on her shoes. From under the wide-brimmed hat her face waited with a consuming eagerness for news, the lips working, the eyes staring.

"I wonder if she's got a son. I hope, if she has, he won't be taken," exclaimed Roy. "What are they doing inside?"

"Drawing lots, to see who must go to the wars. All the young men in the neighbourhood, of a certain age, have been called together, probably; and then those who are passed by surgeons as whole and healthy are made to draw lots. Some will escape, and some will have to go."

"O look—they are coming out. And something is being said—what is it?"

"Hush—the names of those who are drawn."

All listened intently; and the elderly woman, clasping her worn hands, leant forward, with a face of concentrated suspense.

"Jean Paulet——" sounded clearly.

A bitter wailing cry burst from her, drowning what followed.

She held out wild appealing arms. "Mon fils! Mon fils!" she gasped, and dropped senseless to the ground.

"Can nothing be done?" exclaimed Mrs. Baron, in distress. "The poor creature! George, will they not let him off? Surely they need not be so cruel as to take him away!"

"I am afraid the only chance would be a substitute—and not much hope of that."

"Do ask. Find out something. Do, please."

Denham crossed the road with his rapid stride, followed closely by his shadow, Roy, while the Colonel came after in more leisurely style. The poor woman's friends were attending to her, and Ivor, always the Colonel's spokesman in a foreign language, made inquiries of a respectable man, perhaps a small shopkeeper, standing by. The man shrugged his shoulders as he replied. It had to be, he said, not unkindly but resignedly. All young men equally were subject to the conscription, and he who "fell" had to go. There was no escape, no remedy. None, except through the purchase of a substitute, and Marie Paulet, he feared, could not manage that. She was a good woman, truly estimable, and he was sorry for her, yes, sincerely sorry; but what was to be done? The First Consul required soldiers, and, in fact, he would have them! Another expressive shrug.

How much would be required for a substitute? Eh bien—one hundred livres would doubtless suffice. Mme. Paulet, foreseeing this day, had toiled hard and saved assiduously during many years; but with her utmost exertions, as he knew, for she had told him, she had managed to get together only fifty-five livres. No substitute could be obtained for only fifty-five livres. No, no, impossible! Jean would have to go, and his mother would grow used to it, like other mothers. How soon? Sans doute he would be marched away at once—immediately—to the nearest depôt, there to be exercised. The thing had to be. There was no remedy. All France was giving up her best men, by tens of thousands, to feed the Army. In parts already none but women and old men remained to till the soil.

Was Mme. Paulet a widow? asked Denham.

"Oui, oui, oui, oui," the man said, fast as the words could come. Certainly she was a widow; but then she was not over sixty, nor was Jean her only son. Had she been over sixty, and depending for her subsistence upon an only son, then vraiment her case would have been easily pleaded. Marie Paulet was under fifty in age, though she looked more, since she had toiled hard and had known much sorrow. She had a second son too, young and somewhat lame, but able to work, though in truth more of a burden than an assistance. Jean, however, would have to go. This was a supplementary conscription for the year, more men being urgently required by the First Consul.

Jean Paulet stood with a face of sullen despair beside his mother, saying not a word. He was scarcely over nineteen, only one fortnight past the day, Ivor's informant remarked; and he looked young, being loose-limbed and shambling, though broad-shouldered.

"Ask them how much they could make up among themselves towards the purchase of a substitute. Some may be willing to help."

Denham obeyed, and a discussion took place in raised voices. The two Englishmen waited gravely, Mrs. Baron watching affairs from the coach, while Roy stood close by, scanning the conscript with interested gaze. Marie Paulet sat upon the cold ground, weeping bitterly.

"About fifteen livres seems to be the outside, sir. They are poor here. It is a marvel how the woman has managed to save so much. But I am ready to give fifteen livres."

Colonel Baron's eyebrows stirred. "More than you can afford, I should have imagined, but you know your own business best. Well, tell them that if they can find a substitute for one hundred livres, you will give that, and I will give another fifteen. Of course, we can't wait now to see the end of the affair. Tell them we promise it on the word of an English gentleman—that's understood everywhere. Give our Verdun address to the Curé yonder—he looks an honest man. For my part, I doubt if a substitute can be procured, the drain on the country has been so severe of late. But they may succeed. Anyhow, it will soften matters a little to the poor woman. One rather grudges letting the money go into French pockets, but I defy anyone with proper sensibilities to stand out against that poor creature's misery."

Denham listened with his air of half-military, half-courtly, attention to this somewhat prolonged exposition of the Colonel's views. Then he explained what "Monsieur le Colonel Anglais" had said, failing to make clear his own share in the matter, though from no lack of power to express himself. The scene that followed was eminently French in its abandon of joy. One of the young men present, who was eligible but who had not been drawn—had not tombé, as the saying was—came forward, and offered for the sum of one hundred livres to go as the substitute for Jean Paulet. This settled matters; and without hesitation Colonel Baron produced notes for the amount he had named, Denham adding his own donation with a rapid movement, which drew no attention.

Whereupon enthusiasm rose to its height. The people of the town, with whom Marie and her son were plainly favourites, shouted their approval; while Marie crept close to Colonel Baron, knelt at his feet, sobbed out her wordless rapture, and even kissed his hands, to the Colonel's discomfiture.

"I say, Den, I'm going back to the carriage. Say whatever you choose to them. It's all right, but I vow this sort of thing doesn't quite suit a Britisher. And it strikes me you haven't made 'em understand that you're doing as much as I am. Tell 'em that, and talk as much as you think right, and then come along."

A murmur in French from Roy to Jean Paulet gave the further explanation, which would not have been forthcoming from Denham; and he had to submit to some of the vehement demonstrations from which his Colonel had basely fled. Denham endured them, with a certain reticent indifference of manner, which did not mean true indifference. A slightly quizzical smile stirred his lips, but the dark eyes, bent upon poor old Mme. Paulet, were infinitely kind.

Then he too made a move towards the coach; and Roy, lingering one moment more, held out a hand to Jean, who seemed half stunned with his unexpected escape.

"Bon jour, monsieur," the boy said frankly. "I'm glad you are not going to fight against the English just yet."

Jean muttered broken words—something of a faltering hope and prayer that a day might come when he should have it in his power, perhaps—who could tell?—to do some benefit for Monsieur le Colonel, or for Monsieur le Colonel's friend.

It seemed very unlikely—most unlikely—that he and these passing English prisoners should ever meet again, still more that he should be able to do aught for them. Yet most improbable events do take place in this world of ours. Roy had not that day seen the last of Jean Paulet.

As the coach started, in the midst of grateful acclamations, Marie Paulet held up mute hands, tears streaming down her faded cheeks. Such a look was hers, that even Colonel Baron was conscious of moisture in the region of his eyes, though by no means easily moved to outward emotion. Mrs. Baron was weeping outright, with the thought of what such a parting would be between Roy and herself. As for Denham—nobody managed to get a clear sight of his face for a quarter of a minute.

Then once more they were rolling along the interminable roads, Roy declaiming with boyish vehemence against Napoleon, and wondering whether Jean Paulet would ever again be drawn, and would have after all to go. They found a good deal to say on the question, and for a while the interest of the subject kept them going.

But Denham's mind, like a spring slowly released, went back before long to the one engrossing question, which for a space had been thrust into the background. Would Polly indeed wait for him—no matter how long his imprisonment might last? Or would she grow tired of waiting, forget his love and some day become the wife of another?

He could not look that possibility in the face with any sort of inward composure. It held him in thrall, both day and night, through the remainder of this wearisome journey.

Roy was perplexed, during the last two or three days of their progress towards Verdun, at Ivor's absorption of mind. For the first time in his experience, his remarks failed repeatedly to reach the other's understanding. So new a phase of matters was bewildering. Not, however, till they were within three hours of Verdun did he note his friend's face with sufficient care to exclaim—

"I say, Den, I do believe you're tired! Are you?"

"Been a dull companion to-day—have I?"

"Why—but, Den!" Roy spoke in accents of amazement. "You never used to be anything of that sort! You never usen't to have anything at all the matter with you."

"Didn't I? All right—what do you want me to look at now?"

"Is it because you're a prisoner? Do you know, I couldn't get to sleep last night for ever so long—not till past eleven—thinking about it all. I say—don't you hate old Boney? I do. He makes everybody unhappy. Just think of that poor Marie and her son; if you and papa hadn't been there, she would have lost Jean, and perhaps she'd never have seen him again. Wasn't it horrid? And I don't see how men can fight properly, when they don't want to fight at all. Our soldiers fight, because they choose, not because they're made to whether they want it or not. I'm sure Jean didn't want to be a soldier, or he wouldn't have been so glad to get off."

Mrs. Baron leant across to say softly, "Roy, do leave Denham in peace for a little while."

"Why, ma'am, he likes me to talk. He always says so."

Mrs. Baron looked again towards Ivor, with a dubious expression.

(To be continued.)