to live--he
did not doubt that he would live it. He would not think of himself as
inacceptable to old Sir William Belward. He glanced to the tomb under
his hand. There was enough daylight yet to see the inscription on the
marble. Besides, a single candle was burning just over his head. He
stooped and read:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
SIR GASTON ROBERT BELWARD, BART.,
OF RIDLEY COURT, IN THIS PARISH OF GASTONBURY,
WHO,
AT THE AGE OF ONE AND FIFTY YEARS,
AFTER A LIFE OF DISTINGUISHED SERVICE FOR HIS KING
AND COUNTRY,
AND GRAVE AND CONSTANT CARE OF THOSE EXALTED WORKS
WHICH BECAME A GENTLEMAN OF ENGLAND;
MOST NOTABLE FOR HIS LOVE OF ARTS AND LETTERS;
SENSIBLE IN ALL GRACES AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS;
GIFTED WITH SINGULAR VIRTUES AND INTELLECTS;
AND
DELIGHTING AS MUCH IN THE JOYS OF PEACE
AS IN THE HEAVY DUTIES OF WAR:
WAS SLAIN BY THE SIDE OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS,
THE BELOVED AND ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE RUPERT,
AT THE BATTLE OF NASEBY,
IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD MDCXLV.

"A Sojourner as all my Fathers were."

"'Gaston Robert Belward'!"

He read the name over and over, his fingers tracing the letters.

His first glance at the recumbent figure had been hasty. Now, however,
he leaned over and examined it. It lay, hands folded, in the dress of
Prince Rupert's cavaliers, a sword at side, and great spurs laid beside
the heels.

"'Gaston Robert Belward'!"

As this other Gaston Robert Belward looked at the image of his dead
ancestor, a wild thought came: Had he himself not fought with Prince
Rupert? Was he not looking at himself in stone? Was he not here to show
England how a knight of Charles's time would look upon the life of the
Victorian age? Would not this still cold Gaston be as strange at
Ridley Court as himself fresh from tightening a cinch on the belly of a
broncho? Would he not ride from where he had been sojourning as much a
stranger in his England as himself?

For a moment the idea possessed him. He was Sir Gaston Robert Belward,
Baronet. He remembered now how, at Prince Rupert's side, he had sped on
after Ireton's horse, cutting down Roundheads as he passed, on and on,
mad with conquest, yet wondering that Rupert kept so long in pursuit
while Charles was in danger with Cromwell: how, as the word came to
wheel back,