"I knew if you didn't it'd be because you were angry or were afraid, and
you didn't look angry."

"How does one look when one is angry?"

"Like my father."

"And how does your father look?"

"My father's dead."

"Did he die of the plague?" asked Felion, laying his hand on the lad's
shoulder.

"No," said the lad quickly, and shut his lips tight.

"Won't you tell me?" asked Felion, with a strange inquisitiveness.

"No. Mother'll tell you, but I won't." The lad's eyes filled with tears.

"Poor boy--poor boy!" said Felion, and his hand tightened on the small
shoulder.

"Don't be sorry for me; be sorry for mother, please," said the boy, and
he laid a hand on the old man's knee, and that touch went to a heart long
closed against the little city below; and Felion rose and said: "I will
go with you to your mother."

Then he went into another room, and the boy came near the axe and ran his