about it."

Guy Oscard was looking out of the window across to the dull houses
and chimneys that formed his horizon, and in his eyes there was the
longing for a vaster horizon, a larger life.

"I have got a partner," continued Durnovo, "a good man--Jack
Meredith, son of Sir John Meredith. You have, perhaps, met him."

"No," answered Oscard; "but I have heard his name, and I have met
Sir John--the father--once or twice."

"He is out there," went on Durnovo, "getting things together
quietly. I have come home to buy rifles, ammunition, and stores."

He paused, watching the eager, simple face.

"We want to know," he said quietly, "if you will organise and lead
the fighting men."

Guy Oscard drew a deep breath. There are some Englishmen left,
thank Heaven! who love fighting for its own sake, and not only for
the gain of it. Such men as this lived in the old days of chivalry,
at which modern puny carpet-knights make bold to laugh, while
inwardly thanking their stars that they live in the peaceful age of
the policeman. Such men as this ran their thick simple heads
against many a windmill, couched lance over many a far-fetched
insult, and swung a sword in honour of many a worthless maid; but
they made England, my masters. Let us remember that they made
England.