They were merciful and let him listen in peace. Through the blur in his brain, over the beat of his young ardent heart, above the short breaths the notes reached his failing senses, and lifted him—lifted him. There wasn’t a very long distance between his boyhood and his twenty-two years to go, and he was not so weak but that he could travel so far. He sat there by his father again—and heard. The flies buzzed, and he didn’t mind them. The smell of the fields came in through the windows and the Sodawater Fountain Girl sang—and sang; and as she sang her face grew holy to his eyes—radiant with a beauty he had not dreamed a woman’s face could wear. Above the choir rail she stood and sang peerlessly, and the church began to fade and fade, and still she stood there in a shaft of light, and her face was like an angel’s, and she held her arms out to him as the waters rose to his lips. She bent and lifted him—lifted him high upon the strands.... CHAPTER XXXI—IN REALITY Dan awoke from his dream, and sat suddenly up in bed in his shirt sleeves, and stared at the people in his room,—a hotel boy and two strangers, not unlike the men in his dream. He brushed his hand across his eyes. “Sit down, will you? Do you speak English?” They were foreigners, but they did speak English, no doubt far more perfectly than did Dan Blair. “Look here,” the boy said, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me—I must have had a ripping jag on last night—let me put my head in a basin of water, will you?” He dived into the dressing-room, and came out in another second, his blond head wet, wiping his face and hair furiously with a towel. He hadn’t beamed as he did now on these two strange men—for weeks. “Well,” he asked slowly, “I expect you’ve come to ask me to fight with Prince Poniotowsky—yes? It’s against our principles, you know, in the States—we don’t do that way. Personally, I’d throw anything at him I could lay my hands on, but I don’t care to have him let daylight through me, and I don’t care to kill your friend. See? I’m an American—yes, I know, I know,” he nodded sagely, “but we don’t have your kind of fights out our way. It means business when we go out to shoot.” He threw the towel down on the table, soaking wet as it was, put his hands in the pockets of his evening clothes, which he still wore, for he had not undressed, threw his young, blond head back and frankly told his visitors: “I’m not up on swords. I’ve seen them in pictures and read about them, but I’ll be darned if I’ve ever had one in my hand.” His expression changed at the quiet response of Poniotowsky’s seconds. “_Gee._ Whew!” he exclaimed, “he does, does he? Twenty paces—revolvers—why, he’s a bird—a bird!” A slight flush rose along Dan’s cheeks. “I never liked him, and you don’t want to hear what I think of him. But I’ll be darned if he isn’t a bird.” His eyes caught sight of a blue envelope on the table. He tore the telegram open. It was Ruggles’ answer to his question: