"Much lost I; something stayed behind,
A snatch, maybe, of ancient song;
Some breathings of a deathless mind.
Some love of truth, some hate of wrong. …
"And to myself in games I said,
"'What mean the books? Can I win fame?
I would be like the faithful dead
A fearless man, and pure of blame.
I may have failed, my School may fail;
I tremble, but thus much I dare;
I love her. Let the critics rail,
My brethren and my home are there.'"
Chips had laid an emotional hand on Jan's arm after the last line but four; and Heriot went almost as far after the last one of all; but Jan had himself well in hand.
"That's what you and I were forgetting, and we mustn't," Heriot said to him. "Your name isn't only up in the pavilion. It's in some of our hearts as well. Your brethren and your home are here!"
Still Jan looked rather stolid.
"There's just one line I should like to alter," said he with hardihood. "Do you mind reading the first verse over again, sir?"
And Heriot read:
"I go, and men who know me not,
When I am reckoned man, will ask,
"'What is it then that thou hast got
By drudging through that five-year task?
What knowledge or what art is thine?
Set out thy stock, thy craft declare.
Then this child-answer shall be mine,
'I only know they loved me there.'"
"It's just that last line," said Jan. "It should be the other way about."
THE END.
