“Free among the Dead like unto them that are wounded and lie in the
grave, that are out of remembrance.”
In the wild night he had lost his way, though but a few miles from the
barracks.
He had done his duty rigidly in that sphere of life where he had lived
so much alone among his many comrades. Had he exceeded his duty once in
arresting Young Aleck?
When, the next day, Sergeant Fones lay in the barracks, over him the
flag for which he had sworn to do honest service, and his promotion
papers in his quiet hand, the two who loved each other stood beside him
for many a throbbing minute. And one said to herself, silently: “I felt
sometimes”--but no more words did she say even to herself.
Old Aleck came in, and walked to where the Sergeant slept, wrapped close
in that white frosted coverlet which man wears but once. He stood for a
moment silent, his fingers numbly clasped.
Private Gellatly spoke softly: “Angels betide me, it’s little we knew
the great of him till he wint away; the pride, and the law--and the love
of him.”
In the tragedy that faced them this Christmas morning one at least had
seen “the love of him.” Perhaps the broncho had known it before.
Old Aleck laid a palm upon the hand he had never touched when it had
life. “He’s--too--ha’sh,” he said slowly.
Private Gellatly looked up wonderingly. But the old man’s eyes were wet.