superior height, and the boy noted for the first time that this smile
had a peculiarly attractive way of communicating itself from the
clean-shaven lips to the grayish-green eyes of the stranger, banishing
the slightly satirical look that marked his face in repose.

"Well?" The Irishman was still studying him.

"Well? We're all on the knees of the gods, you see! 'Twas written that
we were to meet; you can't avoid me."

The flag had been carried past; the boy replaced his hat, glad of a
moment in which to collect his thoughts. What must he do? The question
beat in his brain. Wisdom whispered avoidance of this stranger. To-day
was the first day; was it wise to bring into it anything from yesterday?
No, it was not wise--reason upheld wisdom. He pulled his hat into place,
his lips came together in an obstinate line, and he raised his eyes.

The sun was dancing on a silvery world, from the rue de Rivoli the fifes
and drums still rattled out their march, close beside him the Irishman
was looking at him with his pleasant smile.

Suddenly, as a daring horseman might give rein to a young horse,
rejoicing in the risk, the boy discarded wisdom and its whispering curb;
his nature leaped forth in sudden comradeship, and impulsively he held
out his hand.

"Monsieur, forgive me!" he said. "The gods know best!"

He said the words in English, perfectly, easily, with that faintest of
all foreign intonations--the intonation that clings to the Russian