s.

"This is his," he said, with awkward pauses between his word groups; "he
won it in Manchuria.... May I pin it on his breast?"

"The Japanese decoration of the Rising Sun," said the Grand Duke,
gravely and acquiescently bowing his head. "Why not?"

Then, turning back his heavy civilian coat, his fingers sought the spot
where should have been the Cross of St. George, and came away empty.

"I had forgotten," he observed drily, "I no longer wear a uniform--nor
have I any longer the authority. You, Brussilov--with you it is
different."

So the man who still held precarious reins over a runaway army detached
the clasp of his ornament and pinned the two side by side on the
unstirring breast of the dead man; the emblem of honour he had gained in
war on Russia and that which rewarded the giving of his life to Russia.

The Grand Duke turned his gaze on Boone Wellver. "Brussilov tells me
that this man was as a father to you ... that you had his permission,
when he was dead, to inspect papers revealing his true identity.... Is
that true?"

"It is true, sir," came the low reply.

"Then on my own responsibility I am going to share that secret with
General Brussilov--implicitly trusting his discretion. He"--the tall
Romanoff indicated with a gesture the body of the man who lay dead--"he
told me, when he came to me. He was one of the world's greatest
soldiers. Once before a casket, draped with flags and supposedly
containing his body, was borne to the grave on a gun caisson--and a
court paid tribute." The Grand Duke paused and spoke again in the
manner of one challenging contradiction. "But he was not buried. He had
not died except to the eyes of the world which was his right. His name
was Hector Dinwiddie."

For a little while no one spoke, and at last Brussilov, with a reverent
hand, lowered the plate over the white face. "Come, gentlemen," he said,
with a brusque masking of agitation, "the burial detachment is ready."

CHAPTER XLVII

With the half-realized familiarity of unplaced features, one face
besides that of his two distinguished companions, declared its existence
to Boone Wellver out of all the faces that set the stage that night.
When they had entered the room where the body lay and the soldiers had
turned and clanked out, they had been as devoid of personal entities as
links in a chain--except one.

An officer, though seen only through half shadow, had worn a stamp of
grief on eyes and a mouth whi