Pen's voice had died away almost to a whisper.

"And that," said the colonel, "is your only excuse?"

"Yes, sir. Except that I didn't mean it; not any of it."

"Of course you didn't mean it. If you had meant it, it would have been a crime instead of a gross offense. But the fact remains that, in the heat of pa.s.sion, without forethought, without regard to your patriotic ancestry, you have wantonly defamed your country and heaped insults on her flag."

Pen tried to speak, but he could not. He clung to the back of his chair and stood mute while the colonel went on:

"My paternal grandfather, sir, fought valiantly in the army of General Putnam in the Revolutionary war, and my maternal grandfather was an aide to General Washington. My father helped to storm the heights of Chapultepec in 1847 under that invincible commander, General Worth. I, myself, shared the vicissitudes of the Army of the Potomac, through three years of the civil war. And now it has come to this, that my grandson has trodden under his feet the flag for which his gallant ancestors fought, and has defamed the country for which they shed their blood."

The colonel's voice had risen as he went on, until now, vibrant with emotion, it echoed through the room. He rose from his chair and began pacing up and down the library floor.

Still Pen stood mute. Even if he had had the voice to speak there was nothing more that he could say. It seemed to him that it was hours that his grandfather paced the floor, and it was a relief to have him stop and speak again, no matter what he should say.

"I have decided," said the colonel, "that you shall apologize for your offense. It is the least reparation that can be made. Your apology will be in public, at your school, and will be directed to your teacher, to your country, to your flag, and to Master Sands who was bearing the colors at the time of the a.s.sault."

Before his teacher, his country and his flag, Pen would have been willing to humble himself into the dust. But, to apologize to Aleck Sands!

Colonel Butler did not wait for a reply, but sat down at his desk and arranged his materials for writing.

"I shall communicate my purpose to Miss Grey," he said, "in a letter which you will take to her to-morrow."

Then, for the first time in many minutes, Pen found his voice.

"Grandfather, I shall be glad to apologize to Miss Grey, and to my country, and to the flag, but is it necessary for me to apologize to Aleck Sands?"

Colonel Butler swung around in his swivel-chair, and faced the boy almost savagely:

"Do you presume, sir," he exclaimed, "to dictate the conditions of your pardon? I have fixed the terms. They shall be complied with to the letter--to the letter, sir. And if you refuse to abide by them you will be required to withdraw to the home of your maternal grandfather, where, I have no doubt, your conduct will be disregarded if not approved. But I will not harbor, under the roof of Bannerhall, a person who has been guilty of such disloyalty as yours, and who declines to apologize for his offense."

Having delivered himself of this ultimatum, the colonel again turned to his writing-desk and proceeded to prepare his letter to Miss Grey.

Apparently it did not occur to him that his demand, thus definitely made, might still be refused.

After what seemed to Pen to be an interminable time, his grandfather ceased writing, laid aside his pen, and turned toward him holding a written sheet from which he read:

"Bannerhall, Chestnut Hill, Pa.

February 22.

"_My dear Miss Grey:_

"It is with the deepest regret that I have to advise you that my grandson, Penfield Butler, on Sat.u.r.day last, by his own confession, dishonored the colors belonging to your school, and made certain derogatory remarks concerning his country and his flag, for which offenses he desires now to make reparation. Will you therefore kindly permit him, at the first possible opportunity, to apologize for his reprehensible conduct, publicly, to his teacher, to his country and to his flag, and especially to Master Alexander Sands, the bearer of the flag, who, though not without fault in the matter, was, nevertheless, at the time, under the protection of the colors.

"Master Butler will report to me the fulfillment of this request.

With personal regards and apologies, I remain,

"Your obedient servant, "Richard Butler."

He folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and handed it to Pen.

"You will deliver this to Miss Grey," he said, "on your arrival at school to-morrow morning. That is all to-night. You may retire."

Pen took the letter, thanked his grandfather, bade him good-night, turned and went out into the hall, and up-stairs to his room.

CHAPTER VI

It is little wonder that Pen pa.s.sed a sleepless night, after the interview with his grandfather. He realized now, perhaps better than any one else, the seriousness of his offense. Knowing, so well as he did, Colonel Butler's reverence for all things patriotic, he did not wonder that he should be so deeply indignant. Pen, himself, felt that the least he could do, under the circ.u.mstances, was to publicly apologize for his conduct, bitter and humiliating as it would be to make such an apology. And he was willing to apologize to any one, to anything--save Alexander Sands. To this point of reparation he could not bring himself. This was the problem with which he struggled through the night hours. It was not a question, he told himself, over and over again, of whether he should leave Bannerhall, with its ease and luxury and choice traditions, and go to live on the little farm at Cobb's Corners. It was a question of whether he was willing to yield his self-respect and manhood to the point of humbling himself before Alexander Sands. It was not until he heard the clock in the hall strike three that he reached his decision.

And his decision was, to comply, in full, with his grandfather's demand--and remain at Bannerhall.

At the breakfast table the next morning Colonel Butler was still reticent and taciturn. He had pa.s.sed an uncomfortable night and was in no mood for conversation. He did not refer, in any way, to the matters which had been discussed the evening before; and when Pen, with the letter in his pocket, started for school, the situation was entirely unchanged. But, somehow, in the freshness of the morning, under the cheerful rays of an unclouded sun, the task that had been set for Pen did not seem to him to be quite so difficult and repulsive as it had seemed the night before. He even deigned to whistle as he went down the path to the street. But he noticed, as he pa.s.sed along through the business section of the town, that people whom he knew looked at him curiously, and that those who spoke to him did so with scant courtesy.

Across the street, from the corner of his eye, he saw one man call another man's attention to him, and both men turned their heads, for a moment, to watch him. A little farther along he caught sight of Elmer Cuddeback, his bosom companion, a half block ahead, and he called out to him:

"Hey! Elmer, wait a minute!"

But Elmer did not wait. He looked back to see who had called to him, and then he replied:

"I can't! I got to catch up with Jimmie Morrissey."

And he started off on a run. This was the cut direct. There was no mistaking it. It sent a new fear to Pen's heart. It served to explain why his schoolfellows had not been to see him and sympathize with him.

He had not before fully considered what effect his conduct of the previous Sat.u.r.day might have upon those who had been his best friends.

But Elmer's action was suspiciously expressive. It was more than that, it was ominous and forbidding. Pen trudged on alone. A group of a half dozen boys who had heretofore recognized him as their leader, turned a corner into Main street, and went down on the other side. He did not call to them, nor did they pay any attention to him, except that, once or twice, some of them looked back, apparently to see whether he was approaching them. But his ears burned. He knew they were discussing his fault.

In the school-house yard another group of boys was gathered. They were so earnestly engaged in conversation that they did not notice Pen's approach until he was nearly on them. Then one of them gave a low whistle and instantly the talking ceased.

"h.e.l.lo, fellows!" Pen made his voice and manner as natural and easy as determined effort could make them.

Two or three of them answered "h.e.l.lo!" in an indifferent way; otherwise none of them spoke to him.

If the battle of Chestnut Hill had ended when the enemy had been driven into the school-house, and if the conquering troops had then gone home proclaiming their victory, these same boys who were now treating him with such cold indifference, would have been flinging their arms about his shoulders this morning, and proclaiming him to the world as a hero; and Pen knew it. With flushed face and sinking heart he turned away and entered the school-house.

Aleck Sands was already there, sitting back in a corner, surrounded by sympathizing friends. He still bore marks of the fray.

As Pen came in some one in the group said:

"Here he comes now."

Another one added:

"Hasn't he got the nerve though, to show himself after what he done to the flag?"

And a third one, not to be outdone, declared:

"Aw! He's a reg'lar Benedic' Arnold."