“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.