The young officer smiled. His own hand moved to the response almost involuntarily, as if Hugh John had been one of his own troopers. The boy's heart stood still. Could this thing be? A real soldier had saluted him! [22] [22] "IT COULD NOT HAVE BEEN BETTER DONE FOR A FIELD-MARSHAL." But there was something more marvellous yet to come. A sweet spring of good deeds welled up in that young officer's breast. Heaven speed him (as doubtless it will) in his wooing, and make [23] him ere his time a general, with the Victoria Cross upon his breast. But though (as I hope) he rise to be Commander-in-Chief, he will never do a prettier action than that day, when the small grimy boy stood under the elm-trees at the end of the avenue of Windy Standard. This is what he did. He turned about in his saddle. [23] "Attention, men, draw swords!" he cried, and his voice rang like a trumpet, so grand it was—at least so Hugh John thought. There came a glitter of unanimous steel as the swords flashed into line. The horses tossed their heads at the stirring sound, and jingled their accoutrements as the men gathered their bridle reins up in their left hands. "Eyes right! Carry swords!" came again the sharp command. And every blade made an arc of glittering light as it came to the salute. It could not have been better done for a field-marshal. No fuller cup of joy was ever drunk by mortal. The tears welled up in Hugh John's eyes as he stood there in the pride of the honour done to him. To be knighted was nothing to this. He had been acknowledged as a soldier by the greatest soldier there. Hugh John did not doubt that this glorious being was he who had led the Greys in the charge at Waterloo. Who else could have done that thing? He was no longer a little dusty boy. He stood there glorified, ennobled. The world was almost too full. "Eyes front! Slope swords!" rang the words once more. [24] [24]
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