making his blood freeze, his knees smite together, the sunlight turn
to darkness....




CHAPTER IV.

THE SWORD AND THE SOUL.


One of the very earliest of all Dam's memories in after life--for in a
few years he forgot India absolutely--was of _the Sword_ (that hung on
the oak-panelled wall of the staircase by the portrait of a cavalier),
and of a gentle, sad-eyed lady, Auntie Yvette, who used to say:--

"Yes, sonny darling, it is more than two-hundred-and-fifty years old.
It belonged to Sir Seymour Stukeley, who carried the King's Standard
at Edgehill and died with that sword in his hand ... _You_ shall wear
a sword some day."

(He did--with a difference.)

The sword grew into the boy's life and he would rather have owned it
than the mechanical steamboat with real brass cannon for which he
prayed to God so often, so earnestly, and with such faith. On his
seventh birthday he preferred a curious request, which had curious
consequences.

"Can I take the sword to bed with me to-night, Dearest, as it is my