"I wonder if I can trust you?" he repeated.

"Trust us, sir!" shouted a dozen voices.

"Do you dare ask it," he replied, "knowing that any one who fails or breaks his trust will be a traitor?"

There was a moment's pause, as the master's solemnity sank deep into the boys' consciousness. Dimly they realized that the issue was something far greater and graver than anything they had known before.

Horace broke the silence.

"Have we deserved that you should distrust us, sir?" he asked.

The old patriot flashed a quick look at him.

"You are boys, still," he said, "that is all. It is your youth, not your disloyalty that I fear."

He studied the faces one by one. Each boy returned his gaze frankly and unflinchingly.

"I will trust you," the master said.

He leaned down to his desk and, with all the lads watching him, wrote in heavy letters on a sheet of paper that lay on his desk.

"There lack but ten days to the end of the term," the master said, when he had finished writing. "I am to trust you for that length of time. You give me your word of honor?"

A chorus of assent greeted him. Not a voice was missing.

"Hear me, then," the old patriot declared, straightening up from his desk. "As boys of Belgium, born and reared on Belgian soil; as boys of Belgium, sons of a land that has never known dishonor; as boys of Belgium, who have worked with me in this little village school of Beaufays together, I trust you. If any one of you fails in that trust, let the rest see to it!"

"We will, sir," they answered.

"I go to defend Belgium," said the master, "but I leave behind me a greater teacher than myself. That teacher is a boy's sense of honor."

He took a thumb-tack from a drawer of his desk and fastened the placard to the upper part of his chair.

It bore the one word:

PATRIE

"There is your master," he said. "School will meet daily, as usual, until the end of the term. My chair is not empty while that word stands there. Let no one be absent. Let none neglect his work. Let the older lads help the younger. As for your conduct, as for your work—I have your word of honor. Your Fatherland! Your Home-land! Your Belgium! There is no more to say."

In the great stillness that followed these words, the roar of the cannon was clearly heard in the distance.

"The guns, again!" said the master. "School is dismissed until to-morrow."

The boys filed out silently, despite their excitement, but, once outside, a babel of questions and exclamations arose. Deschamps' voice was heard above the rest.

"I know how to handle a rifle, sir!" he said, with eager determination.

The old reservist looked sharply at the lad.

"You have not had your military service, yet," he said.

"I could volunteer," the boy responded. "You said, sir, yesterday, that if there were an invasion, volunteers would be needed."

"Your mother—" the old patriot began, but Deschamps interrupted him.

"Mother is a Belgian, sir," he said. "She'll understand."

"I was counting on your example in the school," objected the master.

The lad shook his head confidently.

"There's no need of me, sir," he replied. "The fellows will all play square."

"I hope so," said the master, thoughtfully. Then, knotting his forehead, he asked, "Who is next in rank after you? Monroe, is he not?"

"Yes, sir," put in the boy named, "I'm next in place."

"That's what I thought. Let me think. You were not born in Belgium, Monroe, were you?"

"No, sir," responded Horace, "I'm an American."

The master pondered a moment.

"You have no part, then, in this war," he said slowly.

Horace flushed at the implication.

"I gave my word of honor with the others, sir," he said. "You don't think, sir, that means any less to an American boy!"

The master nodded in satisfaction at the retort.

"I beg your pardon," he replied, as though speaking to an equal, "I am satisfied."

He locked the school door and gave the key to Horace.

"Come with me to the house, Monroe," he added. "I want to give you some final instructions."

"Very well, sir," Horace replied.

"Deschamps," the master continued, turning to the head boy, "if you are really in earnest about volunteering, you had better go home at once and talk the matter over with your parents. I will call at your house on my way through the village. If your father and mother agree, you may accompany me."

"Oh, I'll persuade them to let me go!" announced the lad with assurance.

"And your ambitions to become an artist?" queried his old teacher.

"Belgium first!" Deschamps declared.

The master smiled indulgently at the tone of boyish bombast, but, none the less, it was evident that he was well pleased.

"Very well, Deschamps," he said, "in that case I will see you in an hour's time."

"Can't we go with you part of the way, sir?" asked half a dozen of the smaller lads, clustering around him.

"No," came the decided reply, "most certainly not."

"But we want to see the fun!" piped up one of the smallest boys in the school.

The master put his hand kindly on the youngster's shoulder.

"Ah, Jacques, Jacques," he said, "pray that you may never see it! I am sick at heart to think of what may happen to this little village if the red tide of war rolls over it. Good-bye, boys; remember your trust. Come, Monroe, we must be going."

Some of the elder pupils stopped to shake hands with their old master, but most of the younger ones went running in groups along the village street, with fewer shouts than usual, eager to tell at home the strange happenings of that day at school. Horace and the master turned toward the end of the village, the old patriot taking the opportunity to warn the American lad against allowing the boys to go to extremes in exercising their new-found responsibilities.

"They are much more likely to be too strict than to be too slack," he said, "balance and judgment come with age and experience. They will need the curb, not the whip. I am torn with the idea of leaving the school when no one knows what may happen, but I cannot stay away from Liége. Hear how those guns continue!"

"Just what are you going to do there, sir?" asked Horace.

"Whatever I am told to do," was the answer. "A soldier only obeys orders. I served my time with the artillery and my old battery is at Fort Boncelles. I hope they will let me go there, but guns have changed a great deal since my time, and perhaps my experience may be of little use. Yet the principles are the same, still."

"Does Madame Maubin know as yet that you're going, sir?" asked Horace, as they neared the house.

"No," said the master, "she does not. Of course, we have talked about the possible German invasion, but I said nothing which would alarm her. She will have to be told now."

Like all boys, Horace had a deep dislike for emotional scenes, especially of a domestic character, and he would have given a good deal not to be compelled to go into the house, but there was no help for it. Mme. Maubin had seen them coming, and she opened the door.

"Are those German guns?" she asked.

"Yes," said the master, halting on the threshold.

"Then it is all true?"

"The invasion?" he sighed. "Alas, it is all true."

She turned and walked into the house, the others following.

On a chair, near the window, lay the old uniform.

"Lucie!" cried the master, understanding.

"Did