“I wish it did,” he replied in the ponderous gallantry which suddenly had seemed to come so easy to him, “so that I might get you to bind it for me again. But it is something more important than a petty scratch on the forearm that bothers me just now. I’ve somehow lost my pistol. I have no weapon to protect you in case those ruffians should try to come in; and no weapon to protect myself for the balance of my ride.” “Oh, that’s too bad!” she sympathized. “It beats all how careless a man is about losing weapons. Ehud was just like that with his razors. “Don’t you worry about protecting _me_. I won’t need any protecting. But if you want something to fight with in case you should be held up on the road--why, I’ve got just the very thing for you. Take good care of it, though, won’t you?” She darted across the attic floor and in among the shadows; returning presently with a straight-bladed infantry sword of a somewhat antique make. Handling it almost with reverence, she offered it hilt foremost to Dad. “It was Ehud’s,” she said gently. “He set a lot of store by it. He carried it all through the Mexican War. I think I told you he was a captain there. It cost thirty-two dollars and seventy-five cents, including the lettering. Is the light too dim for you to see the lettering? It’s on the blade. “It says ‘_Draw me not without cause. Sheathe me not without honor._’ “I--I kind of think you’re the kind of man who can keep that commandment. Take the sword.” CHAPTER XIII THE ALARM Dad received the weapon from her hands as reverently as she had tendered it. His fingers closed about the fretted ivory hilt, and he read in the fading light the inscription on its blue-steel blade. Then he handed it back. “A beautiful sword,” he said, a catch in his voice, “and one that any soldier might rejoice to wear at his side. The sword of a brave man, I am sure. Such a man as would to-day be striking gallantly for our dear country if he were still living. I am honored past words at your gift. But--I cannot accept it.” “What?” she asked, her eyes big with wondering disappointment. “Why not? I don’t grudge it to you, a mite. Nor Ehud wouldn’t either.” “You don’t understand,” he explained, feeling as though he had brutally rejected the love-offering of a child. “I cannot wear this splendid sword because I am not entitled to. Such a weapon is worn by none but commissioned officers. I am only a sergeant. And a sergeant is not permitted to carry a sword of this kind. Any more than he is allowed to wear epaulets.” “But--” “I should treasure this gift above any other I have ever had,” he went on, “if the laws of warfare would let me take it. I shall never forget that you offered it to me--an utter stranger--out of the generous bounty of your heart. Please don’t think I don’t appreciate it.” Reluctantly she restored the sword to its hook on the raftered ceiling. “I’m sorry,” she said. “If Ehud’s sword could go on fighting, I’d feel happier.”