John was seized with an almost irresistible impulse to bolt.His turn had come.He must stand up to sing before nearly six hundred boys，who would stare down with gravely critical and courteously amused eyes.And already his legs trembled as if he were seized of a palsy.John knew that he could sing.His mother，who sang gloriously，had trained him.From her he had inherited his vocal chords，and from her he drew the knowledge how to use them.
When he stood up，pale and trembling，the silence fell upon his sensibilities as if it were a dense，yellow fog.This silence，as John knew，was an unwritten law.The small boy selected to sing to the School must have every chance.Let his voice be heard！The master playing the accompaniment paused and glanced at his pupil.John，however，was not looking at him；he was looking within at a John he despiseda poltroon，a deserter about to run from his first engagement.He knew that the introductionto the song was being played a second time，and he saw the Head Master whispering to his guest.Paralyzed with terror，John‘s intuition told him that the Head Master was murmuring，“That’s the nephew of John Verney.Of course you know him？”And the FieldMarshal nodded.And then he looked at John with the flare of recognition in the steelgray eyes.Out of the confused welter of faces shone that pair of eyestwin beacons flashing their messageof encouragement and salvation to a fellowcreature in peril at least，so John interpreted that piercing glance.It seemed to say，far plainer than words，“I have stood alone as you stand；I have felt my knees as wax；I have wished to run away.ButI didn‘t .Nor must you.Open your mouth and sing！”
So John opened his mouth and sang.The first verse of the lyric went haltingly，with wrong phrasing and imperfect articulation.None the less the first verse revealed the quality of the boy’s voice.
John had begun the second verse.He stared，as if hypnotized，straight into the face of the great soldier，who in turn stared as steadily at John；and John was singing like a lark，with a lark‘s spontaneous delight in singing，with an ease and selfabandonment which charmed eye almost as much as ear.Higher and higher rose the clear，sexless notes，till two of them met and mingled in a triumphant trill.To Desmond，that trill was the answer to the quavering，troubled cadences of the first verse；the vindication of the spirit soaring upwards unfettered by the fleshthe pure spirit，not released from the pitiful human clay without a fierce struggle.At that moment Desmond loved the singerthe singer who called to him out of heaven，who summoned his friend to join him，to see what he saw“the vision splendid.”
John began the third and last verse.The famous soldiercovered his face with his hands，releasing John’s eyes，which ascended like his voice，till they met joyfully the eyes of Desmond.At last he was singing to his friendand his friend knew it .John saw Desmond‘s radiant smile，and across that ocean of faces he smiled back.Then knowing that he was nearer to his friend than he had ever been before，he gathered together his energies for the last line of the songa line to be repeated three times，loudly at first，then more softly，diminishing to the merest whisper of sound，the voice celestial melting away in the ear of earthbound mortals.The master knew well the supreme difficulty of producing properly this last attenuated note；but he knew also that John’s lungs were strong，that the vocal chords had never been strained.Still，if the boy‘s breath failed；if anythinga smile，a frown，a cough，distracted his attention，the end would beweakness，failure.He wondered why John was staring so fixedly in one direction.
Nownow！
The piano crashed out the last line；but far above it，dominating it，floated John’s flutelike notes.The master played the same bars for the second time.He was still able to sustain，if it were necessary，a quavering，imperfect phrase.But John delivered the second repetition without a mistake，singing easily from the chest.The master put his foot upon the soft pedal.Nobody was watching him.Had any one done so，he would have seen the perspiration break upon the musician‘s forehead.The piano purred itsaccompaniment.Then，in the middle of the phrase，the master lifted his hands and held them poised above the instrument.John had to sing three notes unsupported.He was smiling and staring at Desmond.The first note came like a question from the heart of a child；the second，higher up，might have been interpreted as an echo to the innocent interrogation of the first，the head no wiser than the heart；but the third and last note had nothing in it of interrogation：it was an answer，allsatisfyingsublime！Nor did it seem to come from John at all，but from above，falling like a snowflake out of the sky.
John slipped back to his seat，crimson with bashfulness，while the School thundered applause.The FieldMarshal shouted，“Encore.”
