"I know, Captain," she said, "that we can't have longings, strivings, or
hopes, without beliefs; beliefs are what they live on. I believe in
being strong and sweet and true for the pure sake of being so; and yet
more for the world's sake; and as much more again for God's sake as God
is greater than his works. I believe in beauty and in joy. I believe
they are the goal of all goodness and of all God's work and wish. As to
resurrection, punishment, and reward, I can't see what my noblest choice
has to do with them; they seem to me to be God's part of the matter;
mine is to love perfect beauty and perfect joy, both in and infinitely
beyond myself, with the desiring love with which I rejoice to believe
God loves them, and to pity the lack of them with the loving pity with
which God pities it. And above all I believe that no beauty and no joy
can be perfect apart from a love that loves the whole world's joy better
than any separate joy of any separate soul."
"Thank you," was murmured from the pillow. Then, as Charlotte once more
wiped the damp brow, the captive said, with much labor, "After that--war
seems--an awful thing. I suppose it isn't half so much a crime--as it is
a--penalty--for the crimes that bring it on. But anyhow--you
know--being--" The bugle rang out the reveillé.
"Being a soldier," said Charlotte, "you want to die like one?"
"Yes, oh, yes!--the best I can. I'd like to sit half up--and hold my
sword--if there's--no objection. I've loved it so! It would almost be
like holding--the hand that's far away. Of course, it isn't really
necessary, but--it would be more like--dying--for my country."
He would not have it in the scabbard, and when I laid it naked in his
hand he kissed the hilt. Charlotte sent Gholson for Ned Ferry. Glancing
from the window, I noticed that for some better convenience our scouts
had left the grove, and the prisoners had been marched in and huddled
close to the veranda-steps, under their heavy marching-guard of
Louisianians. One of the blue-coats called up to me softly:
"Dying--really?" He turned to his fellows--"Boys, Captain's dying."
Every Northern eye was lifted to the window and I turned away.
"Richard!" gently called Charlotte, and I saw the end was at hand; a new
anguish was on the brow; yet the soldier was asking for a song; "a
soldier's song, will you?"
"Why, Captain," she replied, "you know, we don't sing the same words to
our soldier-songs that you do--except in the hymns. Shall I sing 'Am I a
soldier of the cross?'"