Hiram Fenshawe, whoever he was, owned the yacht, and ran at
least two fine equipages from his town house. He must be a wealthy man.
Was he the father of that patrician maid whose gratitude had not stood
the strain of Royson's gruffness? Or, it might be, her brother, seeing
that he was associated with von Kerber in some unusual enterprise? What
was it? he wondered. "There may be fighting," said von Kerber. Dick was
glad of that. He had taken a solemn vow to his dying mother that he
would not become a soldier, and the dear lady died happy in the belief
that she had snatched her son from the war-dragon which had bereft her
of a husband. The vow lay heavy on the boy's heart daring many a year,
for he was a born man-at-arms, but he had kept it, and meant to keep
it, though not exactly according to the tenets of William Penn.
Somehow, his mother's beautiful face, wanly exquisite in that unearthly
light which foreshadows the merging of time into eternity, rose before
him now as he passed from the aristocratic dimness of Prince's Gate
into the glare and bustle of Knightsbridge.
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