I did not dare ask what was happening in Africa that these men should go there and be called poor devils. I thought the Earl might be the Earl of Dudley, but I didn’t even ask that. I held tight to my brother’s arm as the drum stuttered below us and the close-jacketed toy soldiers strutted proudly across the rutted clay of their improvised parade ground.
Later, as we passed by them at ground level, Elijah stopped and gazed at their Lieutenant on his horse. “He has a sword,” he said. “That’s what I told you before, Susan. It’s a hero’s weapon!” And he smiled ruefully down at the rusting parody of a sabre that he carried openly in his hand.
Then we went on, cutting over the tussocky fields till we came to the rough white road that zig-zagged towards Bentley Common.
We passed a few low-lyi
