Crittenden | Page 4

reached upward. There
was the stain where the blood had run down from the furrowed wound
that had caused his father's death, long after the war and just before the
boy was born. The hilt was tarnished, and when he caught it and pulled,
the blade came out a little way and stuck fast. Some one stepped on the
porch outside and he turned quickly, as he might have turned had some
one caught him unsheathing the weapon when a child.
"Hold on there, little brother."
Crittenden stopped in the doorway, smiling affectionately, and the boy
thrust the blade back to the hilt.
"Why, Clay," he cried, and, as he ran forward, "Are you going?" he
asked, eagerly.
"I'm the first-born, you know," added Crittenden, still smiling, and the
lad stretched the sabre out to him, repeating eagerly, "Are you going?"
The older brother did not answer, but turned, without taking the
weapon, and walked to the door and back again.
"Are you?"
"Me? Oh, I have to go," said the boy solemnly and with great dignity,
as though the matter were quite beyond the pale of discussion.
"You do?"
"Yes; the Legion is going."
"Only the members who volunteer--nobody has to go."
"Don't they?" said the lad, indignantly. "Well, if I had a son who
belonged to a military organization in time of peace"--the lad spoke

glibly--"and refused to go with it to war--well, I'd rather see him dead
first."
"Who said that?" asked the other, and the lad coloured.
"Why, Judge Page said it; that's who. And you just ought to hear Miss
Judith!"
Again the other walked to the door and back again. Then he took the
scabbard and drew the blade to its point as easily as though it had been
oiled, thrust it back, and hung it with the cap in its place on the wall.
"Perhaps neither of us will need it," he said. "We'll both be
privates--that is, if I go--and I tell you what we'll do. We'll let the better
man win the sword, and the better man shall have it after the war. What
do you say?"
"Say?" cried the boy, and he gave the other a hug and both started for
the porch. As they passed the door of his mother's room, the lad put one
finger on his lips; but the mother had heard and, inside, a woman in
black, who had been standing before a mirror with her hands to her
throat, let them fall suddenly until they were clasped for an instant
across her breast. But she gave no sign that she had heard, at breakfast
an hour later, even when the boy cleared his throat, and after many
futile efforts to bring the matter up, signalled across the table to his
brother for help.
"Mother, Basil there wants to go to war. He says if he had a son who
belonged to a military organization in time of peace and refused to go
with it in time of war, that he'd rather see him dead."
The mother's lip quivered when she answered, but so imperceptibly that
only the older son saw it.
"That is what his father would have said," she said, quietly, and
Crittenden knew she had already fought out the battle with
herself--alone. For a moment the boy was stunned with his good
fortune--"it was too easy"--and with a whoop he sprang from his place

and caught his mother around the neck, while Uncle Ben, the black
butler, shook his head and hurried into the kitchen for corn-bread and to
tell the news.
"Oh, I tell you it's great fun to have to go to war! Mother," added the
boy, with quick mischief, "Clay wants to go, too."
Crittenden braced himself and looked up with one quick glance
sidewise at his mother's face. It had not changed a line.
"I heard all you said in the hallway. If a son of mine thinks it his duty to
go, I shall never say one word to dissuade him--if he thinks it is his
duty," she added, so solemnly that silence fell upon the three, and with
a smothered, "Good Lawd," at the door, Ben hurried again into the
kitchen.
"Both them boys was a-goin' off to git killed an' ole Miss Rachel not
sayin' one wud to keep 'em back--not a wud."
After breakfast the boy hurried out and, as Crittenden rose, the mother,
who pretended to be arranging silver at the old sideboard, spoke with
her back to him.
"Think it over, son. I can't see that you should go, but if you think you
ought, I shall have nothing to say. Have you made up your mind?"
Crittenden hesitated.
"Not quite."
"Think it over very carefully, then--please--for my sake." Her voice
trembled, and, with a