"You must go from me.

Don't be ashamed of your father, though he may die a prisoner or wander an exile." The boy clung fast to his father's neck, drawing deep sobbing breaths.
"Boy, boy," said the father, mingling his sobs with those of his son, "help me to bear it!" It was a piteous appeal, and it reached the boy's heart.

At once he loosened one hand from its hold, put it up and stroked his father's face as his sobs grew quiet.

At the touch upon his face, the father straightened himself up, gently removed his son's clinging arm from his neck.
"My son," he said quietly, "we must be men.

The men of our blood meet not death so." Immediately the boy slipped from his father's arms and stood erect and quiet, looking up into the dark face above him watchful for the next word or sign.