"My father’s dead."
"Did he die of the plague?" asked Felion, laying his hand on the lad’s shoulder.
"No," said the lad quickly, and shut his lips tight.
"Won’t you tell me?" asked Felion, with a strange inquisitiveness.
"No. Mother’ll tell you, but I won’t." The lad’s eyes filled with tears.
"Poor boy! poor boy!" said Felion, and his hand tightened on the small shoulder.
"Don’t be sorry for me; be sorry for mother, please," said the boy, and he laid a hand on the old man’s knee, and that touch went to a heart long closed against the little city below; and Felion rose and said: "I will go with you to your mother."
Then he went into another room, and the boy came near the axe and ran his fingers along the bright steel, and fondled the handle, as does a hunter the tried weapon which has been his through many seasons. When the old man came back he said to the boy: "Why do you look at the axe?"
"I don’t know," was the answer; "maybe because my mother used to sing a song about the woodcutters."
Without a word, and thinking much, he stepped out into the path leading to the little city, the lad holding one hand. Years afterwards men spoke with a sort of awe or reverence of seeing the beautiful stranger lad leading old Felion into the plague-stricken place, and how, as they passed, women threw themselves at Felion’s feet, begging him to save their loved ones. And a drunkard cast his arm round the old man’s shoulder and sputtered foolish pleadings in his ear; but Felion only waved them back gently, and said: "By-and-by, by-and-by—God help us all!"
