He and Lucille loved it all, and the Haddock bitterly loathed it.

Until Miss Smellie came Dam was a happy boy—­but for queer sudden spasms of terror of Something unknown; and, after her arrival, he would have been well content could he have been assured of an early opportunity of attending her obsequies and certain of a long-postponed resurrection; well content, and often wildly happy (with Lucille) ... but for the curious undefinable fear of Something ...  Something about which he had the most awful dreams ...  Something in a blue room with a mud floor.  Something that seemed at times to move beneath his foot, 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 birthday?” he begged.  “I won’t hurt it.”

And the sword was taken down from the oak-panelled wall, cleaned, and laid on the bed in his room.

“Promise you will not try to take it out of the sheath, sonny darling,” said the gentle, sad-eyed lady as she kissed him “Good night”.

“I promise, Dearest,” replied the boy, and she knew that she need have no fear.

He fell asleep fondling and cuddling the sword that had pierced the hearts of many men and defended the honour of many ancestors, and dreamed, with far greater vividness and understanding, the dream he had so often dreamt before.

Frequently as he dreamed it during his chequered career, it was henceforth always most vivid and real.  It never never varied in the slightest detail, and he generally dreamed it on the night before some eventful, dangerful day on which he risked his life or fought for it.

Of the early dreamings, of course, he understood little, but while he was still almost a boy he most fully understood the significance of every word, act, and detail of the marvellous, realistic dream.

It began with a view of a camp of curious little bell-tents about which strode remarkable, big-booted, long-haired, bedizened men—­looking strangely effeminate and strangely fierce, with their feathered hats, curls, silk sashes, velvet coats, and with their long swords, cruel faces, and savage oaths.