der, when the latter
disappeared. Norman gazed at the spot with staring eyes. The next second
he took in what was happening, and, with an exclamation of horror, he
suddenly dived overboard. When he came to the top, he was pulling the
other boy up with him.

Though Norman was a good swimmer, there was a moment of extreme danger;
for, half unconscious, Gordon pulled him under once. But fortunately
Norman kept his head, and with a supreme effort breaking the drowning
boy's hold, he drew him to the top once more. Fortunately for both, a
man seeing the trouble had brought his boat to the spot, and, just as
Norman rose to the surface with his burden, he reached out and, seizing
him, dragged both him and the now unconscious Gordon aboard his boat.

It was some days before Gordon was able to sit up, and meanwhile he
learned that his assailant and rescuer had been every day to make
inquiry about him, and his father, Mr. Wentworth, had written to
Gordon's father and expressed his concern at the accident.

"It is a strange fate," he wrote, "that should after all these years
have arrayed us against each other thus, and have brought our boys face
to face in a foreign land. I hear that your boy behaved with the courage
which I knew your son would show."

General Keith, in turn, expressed his gratitude for the promptness and
efficiency with which the other's son had apprehended the danger and
met it.

"My son owes his life to him," he said. "As to the flag, it was the
fortune of war," and he thought the incident did credit to both
combatants. He "only wished," he said, "that in every fight over a flag
there were the same ability to restore to life those who defended it."

Gordon, however, could not participate in this philosophic view of his
father's. He had lost his flag; he had been defeated in the battle. And
he owed his life to his victorious enemy.

He was but a boy, and his defeat was gall and wormwood to him. It was
but very little sweetened by the knowledge that his victor had come to
ask after him.

He was lying in bed one afternoon, lonely and homesick and sad. His
father was away, and no one had been in to him for, perhaps, an hour.
The shrill voices of children and the shouts of boys floated in at the
open window from somewhere afar off. He was not able to join them. It
depressed him, and he began to pine for the old plantation--a habit that
followed him through life in the hours of depression.

Suddenly there w