"Now let's get this straight," I said to myself. "He was a hero, he was a real person, and we've been in places where he lived. But he wasn't American, he wasn't British, not French, not Roman, not Greek. We've read about him but never met him." Out loud I said what I always regretted. "I give up."
"Bonnie Prince Charlie," said Nicholas, my son, with quiet satisfaction.
"You said he wasn't British."
"No, I said he wasn't English." It was true, that's what he had said. I could have kicked myself. It was the last game he ever played. Two hours later he was shot in the head by car robbers on the road to Sicily and never regained consciousness.
This last win was typical of him. He chose well, answered carefully, and had a lot of fun doing it. He never cheated. He was a joy to play games with.
It seems fitting that this radiant little creature, just seven years old, should have touched the hearts of millions of people all over the world.