“Come,” he said at length. “It can't be helped. And--I don't know what you feel about it, but I have an objection to letting Wirion see that he can make us unhappy.” Roy came back slowly. “That--brute!” he burst out, choking over the word. “Yes--I know. There's no sort of excuse for him. Roy, I want a promise from you.” “What?” “You know the sort of thing that is going on here. Promise me faithfully that, whatever happens, you will keep clear of the gaming-tables. You may be tempted, and I shall not be at hand to look after you.” Roy was silent--perhaps because of those last words. “Promise. I can depend upon your word.” “I do--promise,” Roy said with difficulty. “Faithfully?” “Yes--faithfully.” “And you will do your best to keep up your mother's spirits? You must be the same plucky fellow with them that you have been all along with me. Don't make any difference. They will need it now, more than ever.” “It's so beastly hard,” muttered Roy. “Yes--it is!”--and a pause. “There's one thought that always is a help to me, and I hope it will be to you. Whatever happens--remember, God is over all. By-and-by we shall see it to be so. Things won't go on always like this.” The interview was getting to be too much for both of them, and Denham drew one hand across his forehead. “There!--that will do. No need to say more. You won't forget that I depend on you; and you'll be just the same as if I were here. The same--every way. I shall miss my----” He was going to say “friend;” but he stopped in time. Roy could stand no more; and Ivor hardly felt as if he could himself. The boy's face worked painfully, and Denham's hand grasped his. “Not for long, I hope,” he said in a cheerful tone. “Now I must go and tell your father.” Three days later the third company of forty détenus quitted Verdun for Valenciennes. Roy and his father, with others, were at the gate, to see the detachment off upon their enforced pilgrimage. Denham had never held his head higher, or looked more sternly composed, and Roy did his best to imitate his friend; but he found it hard work. This was not like an ordinary farewell. He and Denham were alike in the power of an unscrupulous martinet, behind whom was another equally unscrupulous and quite irresponsible despot. Neither could guess what might become of the other, or whether they might hope again to meet before the close of the war: and each could be sure that every possible impediment would be thrown in the way of their communicating by letter one with another. “Remember, Denham, you are always one of us. Wherever we may be, there is your home,” Colonel Baron said, in moved tones. “When you can join us again, your welcome is certain.” “I could never doubt it, sir, after the past,” Denham answered.