Chambers Robert William
Special Messenger
Now seconds meant eternity, perhaps; she mounted the ladder to the attic, tiptoed over the loose boards, felt around for her packet, and loosened the blanket.
By sense of touch alone she dressed, belting in the habit with her girdle, listening, every sense alert. But her hand never shook, her fingers were deft and steady, fastening button and buckle, looping up her skirt, strapping the revolver to her girdle. She folded map and papers noiselessly, tucking them into her bosom; then, carrying her spurred boots, she crept across the boards again, and descended the ladder without a sound.
The fading light from the window fell upon the bed where he lay; and she smiled almost tenderly as she stole by him, he looked so young lying there, his curly head pillowed on his arms.
Another step and she was beside him; another; she stopped short, and her heart seemed to cease at the same instant. Was she deceived? Were his eyes wide open?
Suddenly he sat bolt-upright in the bed, and at the same instant she bent and struck him a stunning blow with the butt of her revolver.
Breathless, motionless, she saw him fall back and lie there without a quiver; presently she leaned over him, tore open his jacket and shirt, and laid her steady hand upon his heart. For a moment she remained there, looking down into his face; then with a sob she bent and kissed him on the lips.
At midnight, as she was riding out of the hill scrub, a mounted vidette hailed her on the Gettysburg pike, holding her there while horseman after horseman galloped up, and the officer of the guard came cantering across the fields at the far summons.
A lantern glimmered, flared up; there was a laugh, the sound of a dozen horses backing, a low voice: “Pass! Special Messenger for headquarters!”
Then the lantern-light flashed and went out; shadowy horsemen wheeled away east and west, trotting silently to posts across the sod.
Far away among the hills the Special Messenger was riding through the night, head bent, tight-lipped, her dark eyes wet with tears.
III
ABSOLUTION
Just before daylight the unshaven sentinels at headquarters halted her; a lank corporal arrived, swinging a lighted lantern, which threw a yellow radiance over horse and rider. Then she dismounted.
Mud smeared her riding jacket; boots and skirt were clotted with it; so was the single army spur. Her horse stretched a glossy, sweating neck and rolled wisely-suspicious eyes at the dazzling light. On the gray saddle cloth glimmered three gilt letters, C. S. A.
“What name, ma’am?” repeated the corporal, coming closer with lifted lantern, and passing an inquiring thumb over the ominous letters embroidered on the saddle cloth.
“No name,” she said. “They will understand—inside there.”
“That your hoss, ma’am?”
“It seems to be.”
“Swap him with a Johnny?”
“No; took him from a Johnny.”
“Shucks!” said the corporal, examining the gilt letters. Then, looking around at her:
“Wa’ll, the ginrall, he’s some busy.”
“Please say that his messenger is here.”
“Orders is formuel, ma’am. I dassent–”
She pronounced a word under her breath.
“Hey?”
She nodded.
“Tain’t her?” demanded the corporal incredulously.
She nodded again. The corporal’s lantern and jaw dropped in unison.
“Speak low,” she said, smiling.
He leaned toward her; she drew nearer, inclining her pretty, disheveled head with its disordered braids curling into witchlocks on her shoulders.
“’Tain’t the Special Messenger, ma’am, is it?” he inquired hoarsely. “The boys is tellin’ how you was ketched down to–”
She made him a sign for silence as the officer of the guard came up—an ill-tempered, heavily-bandaged young man.
“What the–” he began, but, seeing a woman’s muddy skirt in the lantern light, checked his speech.
The corporal whispered in his ear; both stared. “I guess it’s all right,” said the officer. “Won’t you come in? The general is asleep; he’s got half an hour more, but I’ll wake him if you say so.”
“I can wait half an hour.”
“Take her horse,” said the officer briefly, then led the way up the steps of a white porch buried under trumpet vines in heavy bloom.
The door stood open, so did every window on the ground floor, for the July night was hot. A sentry stood inside the wide hall, resting on his rifle, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cap pushed back on his flushed young forehead.
There was a candle burning in the room on the right; an old artillery officer leaned over the center table, asleep, round, red face buried in his arms, sabre tucked snugly between his legs, like the tail of a sleeping dog; an aide-de-camp slept heavily on a mahogany sofa, jacket unbuttoned, showing the white, powerful muscles of his chest, all glistening with perspiration. Beside the open window sat a thin figure in the uniform of a signal officer, and at first when the Special Messenger looked at him she thought he also was asleep.
Then, as though her entrance had awakened him, he straightened up, passed one long hand over his face, looked at her through the candlelight, and rose with a grace too unconscious not to have been inherited.
The bandaged officer of the guard made a slovenly gesture, half salute, half indicative: “The Messenger,” he announced, and, half turning on his heel as he left the room, “our signal officer, Captain West,” in deference to a convention almost forgotten.
Captain West drew forward an armchair; the Special Messenger sank into its tufted depths and stripped the gauntlets from her sun-tanned hands—narrow hands, smooth as a child’s, now wearily coiling up the lustrous braids which sagged to her shoulders under the felt riding hat. And all the while, from beneath level brows, her dark, distrait eyes were wandering from the signal officer to the sleeping major of artillery, to the aide snoring on the sofa, to the trumpet vines hanging motionless outside the open window. But all she really saw was Captain West.
He appeared somewhat young and thin, his blond hair and mustache were burned hay-color. He was adjusting eyeglasses to a narrow, well-cut nose; under a scanty mustache his mouth had fallen into pleasant lines, the nearsighted eyes, now regarding her normally from behind the glasses, seemed clear, unusually pleasant, even a trifle mischievous.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked respectfully.
“After the general is awake—if I might have the use of a room—and a little fresh water—” Speech died in her throat; some of the color died in her face, too.
“Did you wish me to awake him now? If your business is urgent I will,” said Captain West.
She did not reply; an imperceptible twitching tightened her lips; then the young mouth relaxed, drooping a trifle at the corners. Lying there, so outwardly calm, her tired, faraway gaze fixed absently on him, she seemed on the verge of slumber.
“If your business is urgent,” he was repeating pleasantly. But she made no answer.
Urgent? No, not now. It had been urgent a second or two ago. But not now. There was time—time to lie there looking at him, time to try to realize such things as triumph, accomplishment, the excitement of achievement; time to relax from the long, long strain and lie nerveless, without strength, yielding languidly to the reaction from a task well done.
So this was success? A pitiful curiosity made her eyes wistful for an instant. Success? It had not come as she expected.
Was her long quest over? Was this the finish? Had all ended here—here at headquarters, whither she had returned to take up, patiently, the lost trail once more?
Her dark gaze rested on this man dreamily; but her heart, after its first painful bound of astonishment, was beating now with heavy, sickened intelligence. The triumph had come too suddenly.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
She was not hungry. There was a bucket of water and a soldier’s tin cup on the window sill; and, forestalling him instinctively, she reached over, plunged the cup into the tepid depths and drank.
“I was going to offer you some,” he said, amused; and over the brimming cup she smiled back, shuddering.
“If you care to lie down for a few moments I’ll move that youngster off the sofa,” he suggested.
But fatigue had vanished; she was terribly awake now.
“Can’t you sleep? You are white as death. I’ll call you in an hour,” he ventured gently, with that soft quality in his voice which sounded so terrible in her ears—so dreadful that she sat up in an uncontrollable tremor of revolt.
“What did you ask me?”
“I thought you might wish to sleep for half an hour–”
Sleep? She shook her head, wondering whether sleep would be more merciful to her at this time to-morrow—or the next day—or ever again. And all the time, apparently indifferent and distrait, she was studying every detail of this man; his lean features, his lean limbs, his thin, muscular hands, his uniform, the slim, light sabre which he balanced with both hands across his angular knees; the spurred boots, well groomed and well fitted; the polished cross-straps supporting field glasses and holster.
“Are you the famous Special Messenger?—if it is not a military indiscretion to name you,” he asked, with a glint of humor in his pleasant eyes. It seemed to her as though something else glimmered there, too—the faintest flash of amused recklessness, as though gayly daring any destiny that might menace. He was younger than she had thought, and it sickened her to realize that he was quite as amiably conscious of her as any well-bred man may be who permits himself to recognize the charm of an attractive woman. All at once a deathly feeling came over her—faintness, which passed—repugnance, which gave birth to a desperate hope. The hope flickered; only the momentary necessity for self-persuasion kept it alive. She must give him every chance; she must take from him none. Not that for one instant she was afraid of herself—of failing in duty; she understood that she could not. But she had not expected this moment to come in such a fashion. No; there was more for her to do, a chance—barely a miracle of chance—that she might be mistaken.
“Why do you think I am the Special Messenger, Captain West?”
There was no sign of inward tumult under her smooth, flushed mask as she lay back, elbows set on the chair’s padded arms, hands clasped together. Over them she gazed serenely at the signal officer. And he looked back at her.
“Other spies come to headquarters,” he said, “but you are the only one so far who embodies my ideal of the highly mysterious Special Messenger.”
“Do I appear mysterious?”
“Not unattractively so,” he said, smiling.
“I have heard,” she said, “that the Union spy whom they call the Special Messenger is middle-aged and fat.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” he nodded, with a twinkle in his gray eyes—“and I’ve heard also that she’s red-headed, peppered with freckles, and—according to report—bow-legged from too many cross-saddles.”
“Please observe my single spur,” she said, extending her slender, booted foot; “and you will notice that I don’t fit that passport.”
“My idea of her passport itemizes every feature you possess,” he said, laughing; “five feet seven; dark hair, brown eyes, regular features, small, well-shaped hands–”
“Please—Captain West!”
“I beg your pardon—” very serious.
“I am not offended.... What time is it, if you please?”
He lifted the candle, looked closely at his watch and informed her; she expressed disbelief, and stretched out her hand for the watch. He may not have noticed it; he returned the watch to his pocket.
She sank back in her chair, very thoughtful. Her glimpse of the monogram on the back of the watch had not lasted long enough. Was it an M or a W she had seen?
The room was hot; the aide on the sofa ceased snoring; one spurred heel had fallen to the floor, where it trailed limply. Once or twice he muttered nonsense in his sleep.
The major of artillery grunted, lifted a congested face from the cradle of his folded arms, blinked at them stupidly, then his heavy, close-clipped head fell into his arms again. The candle glimmered on his tarnished shoulder straps.
A few moments later a door at the end of the room creaked and a fully-lathered visage protruded. Two gimlet eyes surveyed the scene; a mouth all awry from a sabre-slash closed grimly as Captain West rose to attention.
“Is there any fresh water?” asked the general. “There’s a dead mouse in this pail.”
At the sound of his voice the aide awoke, got onto his feet, took the pail, and wandered off into the house somewhere; the artillery officer rose with a dreadful yawn, and picked up his forage cap and gauntlets.
Then he yawned again, showing every yellow tooth in his head.
The general opened his door wider, standing wiry and erect in boots and breeches. His flannel shirt was open at the throat; lather covered his features, making the distorted smile that crept over them unusually hideous.
“Well, I’m glad to see you,” he said to the Special Messenger; “come in while I shave. West, is there anything to eat? All right; I’m ready for it. Come in, Messenger, come in!”
She entered, closing the bedroom door; the general shook hands with her slyly, saying, “I’m devilish glad you got through, ma’am. Have any trouble down below?”
“Some, General.”
He nodded and began to shave; she stripped off her tight outer jacket, laid it on the table, and, ripping the lining stitches, extracted some maps and shreds of soft paper covered with notes and figures.
Over these, half shaved, the general stooped, razor in hand, eyes following her forefinger as she traced in silence the lines she had drawn. There was no need for her to speak, no reason for him to inquire; her maps were perfectly clear, every route named, every regiment, every battery labeled, every total added up.
Without a word she called his attention to the railroad and the note regarding the number of trains.
“We’ve got to get at it, somehow,” he said. “What are those?”
“Siege batteries, General—on the march.”
His mutilated mouth relaxed into a grin.
“They seem to be allfired sure of us. What are they saying down below?”
“They talk of being in Washington by the fifteenth, sir.”
“Oh.... What’s that topographical symbol—here?” placing one finger on the map.
“That is the Moray Mansion—or was.”
“Was?”
“Our cavalry burned it two weeks ago Thursday.”
“Find anything to help you there?”
She nodded.
The general returned to his shaving, completed it, came back and examined the papers again.
“That infantry, there,” he said, “are you sure it’s Longstreet’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t see Longstreet, did you?”
“Yes, sir; and talked with him.”
The general’s body servant knocked, announcing breakfast, and left the general’s boots and tunic, both carefully brushed. When he had gone out again, the Special Messenger said very quietly:
“I expect to report on the Moray matter before night.”
The general buckled in his belt and hooked up his sword.
“If you can nail that fellow,” he said, speaking very slowly, “I guess you can come pretty close to getting whatever you ask for from Washington.”
For a moment she stood very silent there, her ripped jacket hanging limp over her arm; then, with a pallid smile:
“Anything I ask for? Did you say that, sir?”
He nodded.
“Even if I ask for—his pardon?”
The general laughed a distorted laugh.
“I guess we’ll bar that,” he said. “Will you breakfast, ma’am? The next room is free, if you want it.”
Headquarters bugles began to sound as she crossed the hall, jacket dangling over her arm, and pushed open the door of a darkened room. The air within was stifling, she opened a window and thrust back the blinds, and at the same moment the ringing crack of a rifled cannon shattered the silence of dawn. Very, very far away a dull boom replied.
Outside, in dusky obscurity, cavalry were mounting; a trooper, pumping water from a well under her window, sang quietly to himself in an undertone as he worked, then went off carrying two brimming buckets.
The sour, burned stench of stale campfires tainted the morning freshness.
She leaned on the sill, looking out into the east. Somewhere yonder, high against the sky, they were signaling with torches. She watched the red flames swinging to right, to left, dipping, circling; other sparks broke out to the north, where two army corps were talking to each other with fire.
As the sky turned gray, one by one the forest-shrouded hills took shape; details began to appear; woodlands grew out of fathomless shadows, fields, fences, a rocky hillock close by, trees in an orchard, some Sibley tents.
And with the coming of day a widening murmur grew out of the invisible, a swelling monotone through which, incessantly, near and distant, broken, cheery little flurries of bugle music, and far and farther still, where mists hung over a vast hollow in the hills, the dropping shots of the outposts thickened to a steady patter, running backward and forward, from east to west, as far as the ear could hear.
A soldier brought her some breakfast; later he came again with her saddlebags and a big bucket of fresh water, taking away her riding habit and boots, which she thrust at him from the half-closed door.
Her bath was primitive enough; a sheet from the bed dried her, the saddlebags yielded some fresh linen, a pair of silk stockings and a comb.
Sitting there behind closed blinds, her smooth body swathed to the waist in a sheet, she combed out the glossy masses of her hair before braiding them once more around her temples; and her dark eyes watched daylight brighten between the slits in the blinds.
The cannonade was gradually becoming tremendous, the guns tuning up by batteries. There was, however, as yet, no platoon firing distinguishable through the sustained crackle of the fusillade; columns of dust, hanging above fields and woodlands, marked the courses of every northern road where wagons and troops were already moving west and south; the fog from the cannon turned the rising sun to a pulsating, cherry-tinted globe.
There was no bird music now from the orchard; here and there a scared oriole or robin flashed through the trees, winging its frightened way out of pandemonium.
The cavalry horses of the escort hung their heads, as though dully enduring the uproar; the horses of the field ambulances parked near the orchard were being backed into the shafts; the band of an infantry regiment, instruments flashing dully, marched up, halted, deposited trombone, clarion and bass drum on the grass and were told off as stretcher-bearers by a smart, Irish sergeant, who wore his cap over one ear.
The shock of the cannonade was terrific; the Special Messenger, buttoning her fresh linen, winced as window and door quivered under the pounding uproar. Then, dressed at last, she opened the shaking blinds and, seating herself by the window, laid her riding jacket across her knees.
There were rents and rips in sleeve and body, but she was not going to sew. On the contrary, she felt about with delicate, tentative fingers, searching through the loosened lining until she found what she was looking for, and, extracting it, laid it on her knees—a photograph, in a thin gold oval, covered with glass.
The portrait was that of a young man—thin, quaintly amused, looking out of the frame at her from behind his spectacles. The mustache appeared to be slighter, the hair a trifle longer than the mustache and hair worn by the signal officer, Captain West. Otherwise, it was the man. And hope died in her breast without a flicker.
Sitting there by the shaking window, with the daguerreotype in her clasped hands, she looked at the summer sky, now all stained and polluted by smoke; the uproar of the guns seemed to be shaking her reason, the tumult within her brain had become chaos, and she scarcely knew what she did as, drawing on both gauntlets and fastening her soft riding hat, she passed through the house to the porch, where the staff officers were already climbing into their saddles. But the general, catching sight of her face at the door, swung his horse and dismounted, and came clanking back into the deserted hallway where she stood.
“What is it?” he asked, lowering his voice so she could hear him under the din of the cannonade.
“The Moray matter.... I want two troopers detailed.”
“Have you nailed him?”
“Yes—I—” She faltered, staring fascinated at the distorted face, marred by a sabre to the hideousness of doom itself. “Yes, I think so. I want two troopers—Burke and Campbell, of the escort, if you don’t mind–”
“You can have a regiment! Is it far?”
“No.” She steadied her voice with an effort.
“Near my headquarters?”
“Yes.”
“Damnation!” he blazed out, and the oath seemed to shock her to self-mastery.
“Don’t ask me now,” she said. “If it’s Moray, I’ll get him.... What are those troops over there, General?” pointing through the doorway.
“The Excelsiors—Irish Brigade.”
She nodded carelessly. “And where are the signal men? Where is your signal officer stationed—Captain–”
“Do you mean West? He’s over on that knob, talking to Wilcox with flags. See him, up there against the sky?”
“Yes,” she said.
The general’s gimlet eyes seemed to bore through her. “Is that all?”
“All, thank you,” she motioned with dry lips.
“Are you properly fixed? What do you carry—a revolver?”
She nodded in silence.
“All right. Your troopers will be waiting outside.... Get him, in one way or another; do you understand?”
“Yes.”
A few moments later the staff galloped off and the escort clattered behind, minus two troopers, who sat on the edge of the veranda in their blue-and-yellow shell jackets, carbines slung, poking at the grass with the edges of their battered steel scabbards.
The Special Messenger came out presently, and the two troopers rose to salute. All around her thundered the guns; sky and earth were trembling as she led the way through an orchard heavy with green fruit. A volunteer nurse was gathering the hard little apples for cooking; she turned, her apron full, as the Special Messenger passed, and the two women, both young, looked at one another through the sunshine—looked, and turned away, each to her appointed destiny.
Smoke, drifting back from the batteries, became thicker beyond the orchard. Not very far away the ruddy sparkle of exploding Confederate shells lighted the obscurity. Farther beyond the flames of the Union guns danced red through the cannon gloom.
Higher on the hill, however, the air became clearer; a man outlined in the void was swinging signal flags against the sky.
“Wait here,” said the Special Messenger to Troopers Burke and Campbell, and they unslung carbines, and leaned quietly against their feeding horses, watching her climb the crest.
The crest was bathed in early sunlight, an aërial island jutting up above a smoky sea. From the terrible, veiled maelstrom roaring below, battle thunder reverberated and the lightning of the guns flared incessantly.
For a moment, poised, she looked down into the inferno, striving to penetrate the hollow, then glanced out beyond, over fields and woods where sunlight patched the world beyond the edges of the dark pall.
Behind her Captain West, field glasses leveled, seemed to be intent upon his own business.
She sat down on the grassy acclivity. Below her, far below, Confederate shells were constantly striking the base of the hill. A mile away black squares checkered a slope; beyond the squares a wood was suddenly belted with smoke, and behind her she heard the swinging signal flags begin to whistle and snap in the hill wind. She had sat there a long while before Captain West spoke to her, standing tall and thin beside her; some half-serious, half-humorous pleasantry—nothing for her to answer. But she looked up into his face, and he became silent, and after a while he moved away.
A little while later the artillery duel subsided and finally died out abruptly, leaving a comparative calm, broken only by slow and very deliberate picket firing.
The signal men laid aside their soiled flags and began munching hardtack; Captain West came over, bringing his own rations to offer her, but she refused with a gesture, sitting there, chin propped in her palms, elbows indenting her knees.
“Are you not hungry or thirsty?” he asked.
“No.”
He had carelessly seated himself on the natural rocky parapet, spurred boots dangling over space. For one wild instant she hoped he might slip and fall headlong—and his blood be upon the hands of his Maker.
Sitting near one another they remained silent, restless-eyed, brooding above the battle-scarred world. As he rose to go he spoke once or twice to her with that haunting softness of voice which had begun to torture her; but her replies were very brief; and he said nothing more.
At intervals during the afternoon orderlies came to the hill; one or two general officers and their staffs arrived for brief consultations, and departed at a sharp gallop down hill.
About three o’clock there came an unexpected roar of artillery from the Union left; minute by minute the racket swelled as battery after battery joined in the din.
Behind her the signal flags were fluttering wildly once more; a priest, standing near her, turned nodding:
“Our boys will be going in before sundown,” he said quietly.
“Are you Father Corby, chaplain of the Excelsiors?”
“Yes, madam.”
He lifted his hat and went away knee-deep through the windy hill-grasses; white butterflies whirled around him as he strode, head on his breast; the swift hill swallows soared and skimmed along the edges of the smoke as though inviting him. From her rocky height she saw the priest enter the drifting clouds.
A man going to his consecrated duty. And she? Where lay her duty? And why was she not about it?
“Captain West!” she called in a clear, hard voice.
Seated on his perch above the abyss, the officer lowered his field glasses and turned his face. Then he rose and moved over to where she was sitting. She stood up at once.
“Will you walk as far as those trees with me?” she asked. There was a strained ring to her voice.
He wheeled, spoke briefly to a sergeant, then, with that subtle and pleasant deference which characterized him, he turned and fell into step beside her.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked softly.
“No.... God help us both.”
He halted. At a nod from her, two troopers standing beside their quietly browsing horses, cocked carbines. The sharp, steel click of the locks was perfectly audible through the din of the cannon.
The signal officer looked at her; and her face was whiter than his.
“You are Warren Moray—I think,” she said.
His eyes glimmered like a bayonet in sunlight; then the old half-gay, half-defiant smile flickered over his face.
“Special Messenger,” he said, “you come as a dark envoy for me. Now I understand your beauty—Angel of Death.”
“Are you Major Moray?” She could scarcely speak.
He smiled, glanced at the two troopers, and shrugged his shoulders. Then, like a flash his hand fell to his holster, and it was empty; and his pistol glimmered in her hand.
“For God’s sake don’t touch your sabre-hilt!” she said.... “Unclasp your belt! Let it fall!”
“Can’t you give me a chance with those cavalrymen?”
“I can’t. You know it.”
“Yes; I know.”
There was a silence; the loosened belt fell to the grass, the sabre clashing. He looked coolly at the troopers, at her, and then out across the smoke.
“This way?” he said, as though to himself. “I never thought it.” His voice was quiet and pleasant, with a slight touch of curiosity in it.
“How did you know?” he asked simply, turning to her again.
She stood leaning back against a tree, trying to keep her eyes fixed on him through the swimming weakness invading mind and body.
“I suppose this ends it all,” he added absently; and touched the sabre lying in the grass with the tip of his spurred boot.
“Did you look for any other ending, Mr. Moray?”
“Yes—I did.”
“How could you, coming into our ranks with a dead man’s commission and forged papers? How long did you think it could last? Were you mad?”
He looked at her wistfully, smiled, and shook his head.
“Not mad, unless you are. Your risks are greater than were mine.”
She straightened up, stepped toward him, very pale.
“Will you come?” she asked. “I am sorry.”
“I am sorry—for us both,” he said gently. “Yes, I will come. Send those troopers away.”
“I cannot.”
“Yes, you can. I give my word of honor.”
She hesitated; a bright flush stained his face.
“I take your word,” she murmured.
A moment later the troopers mounted and cantered off down the hill, veering wide to skirt the head of a column of infantry marching in; and when the Special Messenger started to return she found masses of men threatening to separate her from her prisoner—sunburnt, sweating, dirty-faced men, clutching their rifle-butts with red hands.
Their officers rode ahead, thrashing through the moist grass; a forest of bayonets swayed in the sun; flag after flag passed, slanting above the masses of blue.
She and her prisoner looked on; the flag of the 63d New York swept by; the flags of the 69th and 88th followed. A moment later the columns halted.
“Your Excelsiors,” said Moray calmly.
“They’re under fire already. Shall we move on?”
A soldier in the ranks, standing with ordered arms, fell straight backward, heavily; a corporal near them doubled up with a grunt.
The Special Messenger heard bullets smacking on rocks; heard their dull impact as they struck living bodies; saw them knock men flat. Meanwhile the flags drooped above the halted ranks, their folds stirred lazily, fell, and scarcely moved; the platoon fire rolled on unbroken somewhere out in the smoke yonder.
“God send me a bullet,” said Moray.... “Why do you stay here?”
“To—give you—that chance.”
“You run it, too.”
“I hope so. I am very—tired.”
“I am sorry,” he said, reddening.
She said fiercely: “I wish it were over.... Life is cruel.... I suppose we must move on. Will you come, please?”
“Yes—my dark messenger,” he said under his breath, and smiled.
A priest passed them in the smoke; her prisoner raised his hand to the visor of his cap.
“Father Corby, their chaplain,” she murmured.
“Attention! Attention!” a far voice cried, and the warning ran from rank to rank, taken up in turn by officer after officer. Father Corby was climbing to the summit of a mound close by; an order rang out, bugles repeated it, and the blue ranks faced their chaplain.
