Archie lay silent for a time, breathing heavily, the tumult of the last
great conflict blending every moment with the peace of the last great
surrender. An instant later, the dying face seemed lightened, like one
who descries the lights of home.
"I canna juist mind the words; is it the outgoin' o' the mornin' He
makes to rejoice?"
"And the evening," I said quickly, "the evening too, Archie."
"Aye," he answered peacefully, "I thocht He wadna forget the gloamin'.
Aye, mair the evenin' than the mornin', I'm thinkin'."
His face was radiant now, for the morning light had passed us watchers
by, its glory resting on the face that loved to greet it.
"Haud ma haun, guid-wife," his voice upborne by the buoyancy of death.
"I'm slippin' fast into the licht. I see what they ca' the gates o'
deith. The licht has found them oot. They've been sair maligned, I'm
thinkin'. The pulpit has misca'd them, but the believer's deein' lips
can ca' them fair. They're the gates o' deith, nae doot, but the Maister
hauds the keys."
We stood as close to the old precentor as we might, but we were in the
shadow still. For death seldom shares his surprises with the alien and
is selfish with his secret luxuries.
"Hark ye!" the dying man suddenly cried. "Div ye no' hear the sang? It's
graun ayont the thocht o' man. They're a' in white, an' it's 'Martyrdom'
is the tune. Wha's leadin' them? I see Him fine; it's Him wha made the
sang itsel'. It's Him wha's leadin' them. Div ye no' ken what they're
singin'? It's the new sang, the sang o' Moses an' the Lamb. An' hark ye!
it's the same as the psalm my mither taught me. I canna tell the yin
frae the ither."
And the old precentor hurried on to join the choir invisible.