CHAPTER XIX
A car full of leaf tobacco had been brought in that day, andBerkley secured a little of it for his pipe.
Seated on the edge of the shaky veranda in the darkness, he filledand lighted his cob pipe and, smoking tranquilly, listened to thedistant cannonade which had begun about sundown. Thousands offire-flies sailed low in the damp swale beyond the store-house, or,clinging motionless to the long wet grass and vines, sparkledpalely at intervals. There was no wind. Far on the southernhorizon the muttering thunder became heavier and more distinct.From where he sat he could now watch the passage of the greatmortar shells through the sky, looking like swiftly moving cometscleaving unfathomable space; then, falling, faster and faster,dropping out of the heights of night, they seemed to leave behindthem tracks of fire that lingered on the dazzled retina long afterthey had disappeared. The explosion of the incendiary shells waseven more spectacular; the burning matter of the chemical chargefell from them in showers of clear blue and golden stars, droppingslowly toward the unseen river below.
He could distinguish the majestic thunder of the huge mortars fromthe roar of the Parrotts; the irregular volleys of musketry had aresonant clang of metal in them like thousands of iron ballsdropped on a sheet of tin.
For an hour the distant display of fireworks continued, then thethunder rolled away, deadened to a dull rumour, and died out; andthe last lingering spark of Greek fire faded in mid-heaven. Awavering crimson light brightened on the horizon, increasing,deepening. But what it was that had been set on fire he could notguess. Paigecourt lay in that direction.
He extended his booted legs, propped his back against a pillar, andcontinued smoking carefully and economically to save his fragmentsof Virginia leaf, deeply absorbed in retrospection.
For the first time he was now certain of the change which time,circumstance, and environment had wrought in himself; he wascuriously conscious of the silent growth of a germ which, one day,must become a dictatorial and arbitrary habit--the habit of rightthinking. The habit of duty, independent of circumstances, hadslowly grown with his military training; mind and body had learnedautomatically to obey; mind and body now definitely recognised theimportance of obedience, were learning to desire it, had begun totake an obscure sort of pride in it. Mind and body were alreadysubservient to discipline. How was it with his other self.
In the human soul there is seldom any real perplexity. Only thebody reasons; the soul knows. He knew this now. He knew, too,that there is a greater drill-master than that which was nowdisciplining his mind and body--the spiritual will--that there is ahigher sentiment than the awakened instinct of mental and physicalobedience--the occult loyalty of the spirit. And, within him,something was now awaking out of night, slowly changing him, souland body.
As he sat there, tranquil, pondering, there came a shadowy figure,moving leisurely under the lighted windows of the hospital,directly toward him--a man swinging a lantern low above thegrass--and halted beside him in a yellow shaft of light,
"Berkley," he said pleasantly; then, to identify himself, liftedthe lantern to a level with his face.
"Dr. Benton!"
"Surely--surely. I come from Paigecourt. I left Mrs. Craig andStephen about five o'clock; I have just left Miss Lynden on duty.May I sit here beside you, Phil? And, in the first place, how areyou, old fellow?"
"Perfectly well, doctor. . . . I am glad to see you. . . . It ispleasant to see you. . . . I am well; I really am. You are, too;I can see that. . . . I want to shake hands with you again--towish you happiness," he added in a low voice. "Will you accept mywarmest wishes, Dr. Benton?"
They exchanged a hard, brief grip.
"I know what you mean. Thank you, Phil. . . . I am very happy; Imean that she shall be. Always."
Berkley said: "There are few people I really care for. She isamong the few."
"I have believed so. . . . She cares, deeply, for you. . . . Sheis right." . . . He paused and glanced over his shoulder at thecrimson horizon. "What was that shelling about? The gun-boats werefiring, too."
"I haven't any idea. Something is on fire, evidently. I hope itis not Paigecourt."
"God forbid!"
The doctor looked hard at the fiery sky, but said nothing more.
"How is Stephen?" asked the younger man earnestly.
"Better."
"Is he going to get well?"
Dr. Benton thought a moment.
"He was struck by a conoidal ball, which entered just above theinterclavicular notch of the sternum and lodged near the superiorangle of the scapula. Assistant Surgeon Jenning, U. S. V., removedthe bullet and applied simple dressings. There was a longitudinalgroove on the bullet which may have been caused by contact with thebone, but there are no symptoms of injury to the osseous tissue. Ihope he will recover entirely. Miss Lent, his affianced, isexpected to-night. Arrangements have been made to convey himaboard a Sanitary Commission boat this evening. The sooner hestarts North the better. His mother and Miss Lent go with him asnurses."
Berkley drew a quiet breath of relief. "I am glad," he saidsimply. "There is fever in the air here."
"There is worse, Phil. They're fine people, the Craigs. Thatmother of his stood the brutal shock of the news wonderfully--not atear, not a tremor. She is a fine woman; she obeyed me, notimplicitly, but intelligently. I don't like that kind of obedienceas a rule; but it happened to be all right in her case. She hasvoluntarily turned Paigecourt and all the barns, quarters, farms,and out-buildings into a base hospital for the wounded of eitherarmy. She need not have done it; there were plenty of otherplaces. But she offered that beautiful old place merely because itwas more comfortable and luxurious. The medical corps have alreadyruined the interior of the house; the garden with its handsome boxhedges nearly two centuries old is a wreck. She has given all thefarm horses to the ambulances; all her linen to the medicaldirector; all cattle, sheep, swine, poultry to the hospitalauthorities; all her cellared stores, wines, luxuries to thewounded. I repeat that she is a fine specimen of Americanwoman--and the staunchest little rebel I ever met."
Berkley smiled, then his bronzed face grew serious in the nickeringlantern light.
"Colonel Arran is badly hurt. Did you know it?"
"I do," said the doctor quietly. "I saw him just before I cameover here to find you."
"Would you care to tell me what you think of his chances?"
"I--don't--know. He is in considerable pain. The wound continueshealthy. They give him a great deal of morphia."
"Do you--believe----"
"I can't yet form an opinion worth giving you. Dillon, theassistant surgeon, is an old pupil of mine. He asked me to look into-morrow; and I shall do so."
"I'm very glad. I was going to ask you. But--there's a good dealof professional etiquette in these hospitals----"
"It's everywhere," said the doctor, smiling. Then his pleasant,alert face changed subtly; he lifted the lantern absently, softlyreplaced it on the veranda beside him, and gazed at it. Presentlyhe said:
"I came here on purpose to talk to you about another matter. . . .Shall we step inside? Or"--he glanced sharply around, lantern heldabove his head--"I guess we're better off out here."
Berkley silently assented. The doctor considered the matter inmind for a while, nursing his knees, then looking directly atBerkley:
"Phil, you once told roe a deliberate falsehood."
Berkley's face flushed scarlet, and he stiffened in every muscle.
The doctor said: "I merely wanted you to understand that I knew itto be a falsehood when you uttered it. I penetrated your motive intelling it, let it go at that, and kept both eyes open--and waited."
Berkley never moved. The painful colour stained the scar on hisbrow to an ugly purple.
"The consequences of which falsehood," continued the doctor,"culminated in my asking Miss Lynden to marry me. . . . I've beenthinking--wondering--whether that lie was justifiable. And I'vegiven up the problem.
But I respect your motive in telling it.It's a matter for you to settle privately with yourself and yourMaker. I'm no Jesuit by nature; but--well--you've played a man'spart in the life of a young and friendless girl who has become tome the embodiment of all I care for in woman. And I thank you forthat. I thank you for giving her the only thing she lacked--achance in the world. Perhaps there were other ways of doing it. Idon't know. All I know is that I thank you for giving her thechance."
He ceased abruptly, folded Ins arms, and gazed musingly into space.Then:
"Phil, have you ever injured a man named Eugene Hallam, Captain ofyour troop in the 8th Lancers?"
Berkley looked up, startled; and the hot colour began to fade.
"What do you know about Captain Hallam?" he asked.
"Where is he?"
"Probably a prisoner. He was taken at the cavalry affair whichthey now call Yellow Run."
"You saw him taken by the enemy?"
"No. I saw him--surrender--or rather, ride toward the enemy,apparently with that design in mind."
"Why don't you say that Hallam played the coward--that he desertedhis men under fire--was even shot at by his own colonel?"
"You seem to know about it," said Berkley in a mortifiedvoice. . . . "No man is anxious to reflect on his own regiment.That is why I did not mention it."
"Yes, I knew it. Your servant, the trooper Burgess, came toPaigecourt in search of you. I heard the detestable details fromhim. He was one of the detachment that got penned in; he saw theentire performance."
"I didn't know Burgess was there," said Berkley. "Is he all right?"
"Wears his left wrist in a sling; Colles's fracture; horse fell.He's a villainous-looking party; I wouldn't trust that fellow witha pewter button. But he seems devoted to you."
"I've never been able to make him out," said Berkley, smiling.
The doctor thought a minute.
"I saw two interesting people at Paigecourt. One was Miss Dix, anold friend of mine; the other chanced to be Surgeon GeneralHammond. They were on a tour of inspection. I hope they likedwhat they saw."
"Did they?"
"I guess not. . . . Things in the hospitals ought to go betternow. We're learning. . . . By the way, you didn't know that AilsaPaige had been to Paigecourt, did you?"
"When?"
"Recently. . . . She's another fine woman. She never had anillness worse than whooping cough. I know because I've always beenher physician. Normally she's a fine, wholesome woman,Berkley--but she told a falsehood. . . . You are not the only liarsouth of Dixon's damnable Line!"
Berkley straightened up as though shot, and the doctor dropped aheavy hand on his shoulder.
"The sort of lie you told, Phil, is the kind she told. It doesn'tconcern you or me; it's between her conscience and herself; andit's in a good safe place. . . . And now I'll sketch out for youwhat she did. This--this beast, Hallam, wrote to Miss Dix atWashington and preferred charges against Miss Lynden. . . . I'mtrying to speak calmly and coherently and without passion, damn it!Don't interrupt me. . . . I say that Hallam sent his writtenevidence to Miss Dix; and Ailsa Paige learned of it, and learnedalso what the evidence was. . . . And it was a terrible thing forher to learn, Phil--a damnable thing for a woman to learn."
He tightened his grasp on Berkley's shoulder, and his voice was notvery steady.
"To believe those charges--that evidence--meant the death of herfaith in you. . . . As for the unhappy revelation of what MissLynden had been--the evidence was hopelessly conclusive. Imaginewhat she thought! Any other woman would have sat aloof and letjustice brand the woman who had doubly betrayed her. I want you toconsider it; every instinct of loyalty, friendship, trust, modestyhad apparently been outraged and trampled on by the man she hadgiven her heart to, and by the woman she had made a friend. Thatwas the position in which Ailsa Paige found herself when shelearned of these charges, saw the evidence, and was informed byHallam that he had forwarded his complaint."
His grip almost crushed Berkley's shoulder muscles.
"And now I'll tell you what Ailsa Paige did. She went before MissDix and told her that there was not one atom of truth in thecharges. She accounted for every date specified by saying thatMiss Lynden was with her at those times, that she had known herintimately for years, known her family--that it was purely a caseof mistaken identity, which, if ever pressed, would bewilder herfriend, who was neither sufficiently experienced to understand whatsuch charges meant, nor strong enough to endure the horror andshock if their nature were explained.
"She haughtily affirmed her absolute faith in you, avowed herengagement to marry you, pointed to your splendid military record;disdainfully exposed the motive for Hallam's action. . . . And she_convinced_ Miss Dix, who, in turn, convinced the Surgeon General.And, in consequence, I can now take my little girl away from hereon furlough, thank God!--and thanks to Ailsa Paige, who lied like amartyr in her behalf. And that's what I came here to tell you."
He drew a long, shuddering breath, his hand relaxed on Berkley'sshoulder, and fell away.
"I don't know to-day what Ailsa Paige believes; but I know what shedid for the sake of a young girl. . . . If, in any way, her faithin you has been poisoned, remember what was laid before her, provenin black and white, apparently; remember, more than that, theterrible and physically demoralising strain she has been under inthe line of duty. No human mind can remain healthy very long undersuch circumstances; no reasoning can be normal. The small dailyvexations, the wear and tear of nerve tissue, the insufficientsleep and nourishment, the close confinement in the hospitalatmosphere, the sights, sounds, odours, the excitement, theanxiety--all combine to distort reason and undermine one's naturalequipoise.
"Phil, if Ailsa, in her own heart, doubts you as she now doubtsLetty, you must understand why. What she did shows her courage,her sweetness, her nobility. What she may believe--or think shebelieves--is born only of morbid nerves, overworked body, and acrippled power of reasoning. Her furlough is on the way; I didmyself the honour to solicit it, and to interest Miss Dix in herbehalf. It is high time; the child cannot stand much more. . . .After a good rest in the North, if she desires to return, there isnobody to prevent her . . . unless you are wise enough to marryher. What do you think?"
Berkley made no answer. They remained silent for a long time.Then the doctor rose and picked up his lantern; and Berkley stoodup, too, taking the doctor's outstretched hand.
"If I were you, Phil, I'd marry her," said Benton. "Good-night.I'll see Colonel Arran in the morning. Good-night, my boy."
"Good-night," said Berkley in a dull voice.
Midnight found him pacing the dead sod in front of the veranda,under the stars. One by one the lights in the hospital had beenextinguished; a lantern glimmered at the guard-house; here andthere an illuminated window cast its oblong of paler light acrossthe grass. Southward the crimson radiance had died out; softenedechoes of distant gunshots marked the passing of the slow, darkhours, but the fitful picket firing was now no louder than thedeadened stamp of horses in their stalls.
A faint scent of jasmine hung in the air, making it fresher, thoughno breeze stirred.
He stood for a while, face upturned to the stars, then his headfell. Sabre trailing, he moved slowly out into the open; and, atrandom, wandered into the little lane that led darkly down undergreen bushes to Letty's bridge.
It was fresher and cooler in the lane; starlight made the plankingof the little foot-bridge visible in the dark, but the stream ranunder it too noiselessly for him to hear the water moving over itsbed of velvet sand.
A startled whippoorwill flashed into shadowy night from the rail ashe laid his hand upon it, and, searching for the seat which Letty'sinvalid had built for her, he sank down, burying his head in hishands.
And, as he sat there, a vague shape, motionless in the starlight,stirred, moved silently, detaching itself from the depthless wallof shadow.
There was a light step on the grass, a faint sound
from the bridge.But he heard nothing until she sank down on the flooring at hisfeet and dropped her head, face downward, on his knees.
As in a dream his hands fell from his eyes--fell on her shoulders,lay heavily inert.
"Ailsa?"
Her feverish face quivered, hiding closer; one small hand searchedblindly for his arm, closed on his sleeve, and clung there. Hecould feel her slender body tremble at intervals, under his lips,resting on her hair, her breath grew warm with tears.
She lay there, minute after minute, her hand on his sleeve,slipping, tightening, while her tired heart throbbed out its heavyburden on his knees, and her tears fell under the stars.
Fatigued past all endurance, shaken, demoralised, everything in herwas giving way now. She only knew that he had come to her out ofthe night's deathly desolation--that she had crept to him forshelter, was clinging to him. Nothing else mattered in the world.Her weary hands could touch him, hold fast to him who had been lostand was found again; her tear-wet face rested against his; theblessed surcease from fear was benumbing her, quieting her,soothing, relaxing, reassuring her.
Only to rest this way--to lie for the moment unafraid--to ceasethinking, to yield every sense to heavenly lethargy--to forget--toforget the dark world's sorrows and her own.
The high planets shed their calm light upon her hair, silvering herslender neck and the hand holding to his sleeve, and the steel edgeof his sabre hilt, and a gilded button at his throat. And all elselay in shadow, wrapping them close together in obscurity.
At times he thought she was asleep, and scarcely moving, bentnearer; but always felt the nervous closing of her fingers on hissleeve.
And at last sleep came to her, deadening every sense. Cautiouslyhe took her hand; the slim fingers relaxed; body and limbs werelimp, senses clouded, as he lifted her in his arms and rose.
"Don't--go," she murmured drowsily.
"No, dear."
Through the darkness, moving with infinite care, he bore her underthe stars and stepped noiselessly across the veranda, entered, andlaid her on his cot.
"Philip," she murmured.
But he whispered to her that she must sleep, that he would be nearher, close to her. And she sighed deeply, and her white lidsclosed again and rested unstirring on her pallid cheeks.
So she slept till the stars faded, then, awaking, lifted her head,bewildered, drawing her hand from his; and saw the dawn graying hisface where he sat beside her.
She sat up, rigid, on the blanket, the vivid colour staining herfrom throat to brow; then memory overwhelmed her. She covered hereyes with both arms and her head dropped forward under the beautyof her disordered hair.
Minute succeeded minute; neither spoke nor moved. Then, slowly, insilence, she looked up at him and met his gaze. It was herconfession of faith.
He could scarcely hear her words, so tremulously low was the voicethat uttered them.
"Dr. Benton told me everything. Take me back. The world is emptywithout you. I've been through the depths of it--my heart hassearched it from the ends to the ends of it. . . . And finds nopeace where you are not--no hope--no life. All is desolationwithout you. Take me back."
She stretched out her hands to him; he took them, and pressed themagainst his lips; and looking across at him, she said:
"Love me--if you will--as you will. I make no terms; I ask none.Teach me your way; your way is mine--if it leads to you; all otherpaths are dark, all other ways are strange. I know, for I havetrodden them, and lost myself. Only the path you follow is lightedfor me. All else is darkness. Love me. I ask no terms."
"Ailsa, I can offer none."
"I know. You have said so. That is enough. Besides, if you loveme, nothing else matters. My life is not my own; it is yours. Ithas always been yours--only I did not know how completely. Now Ihave learned. . . . Why do you look at me so strangely? Are youafraid to take me for yourself? Do you think I do not know what Iam saying? Do you not understand what the terror of these dayswithout you has done to me? The inclination which lacked onlycourage lacks it no longer. I know what you have been, what youare. I ask nothing more of life than you."
"Dear," he said, "do you understand that I can never marry you?"
"Yes," she said steadily. "I am not afraid."
In the silence the wooden shutter outside the window swung to witha slam in the rising breeze which had become a wind blowingfitfully under a wet gray sky. From above the roof there came asudden tearing sound, which at first he believed to be the wind.It increased to a loud, confusing, swishing whistle, as thoughhundreds of sabres were being whirled in circles overhead.
Berkley rose, looking upward at the ceiling as the noise grew involume like a torrent of water flowing over rocks.
Ailsa also had risen, laying one hand on his arm, listeningintently.
"What is it?" she breathed.
"It is the noise made by thousands of bullets streaming through theair above us. It sounds like that in the rifle-pits. Listen!"
The strange, bewildering sound filled the room. And now, as thewind shifted, the steady rattle of musketry became suddenlyaudible. Another sound, sinister, ominous, broke on their ears,the clang of the seminary bell.
"Is it an attack on this place?" she asked anxiously. "What can wedo? There are no troops here! I--I must go to my sick boys----"
Her heart stood still as a cannon thundered, followed by thefearful sound of the shell as it came tearing toward them. As itneared, the noise grew deafening; the air vibrated with a rushingsound that rose to a shriek.
Ailsa's hands grasped his arm; her ears seemed bursting with theabominable sound; pain darted through her temples, flashing intoagony as a heavy jar shook the house, followed by a dazzling lightand roar.
Boom! Boom! came the distant, sullen thunder, followed by theunmistakable whir of a Parrott shell. Suddenly shrapnel shellsbegan to come over, screaming, exploding, filling the air with therush and clatter of bullets.
"Lie down," he said. "You can't go out in this. It will veer offin a few moments, when they find out that they're shelling ourhospitals."
"I've got to go," she repeated; "my boys won't understand why Idon't come."
She turned and opened the door; he caught her in his arms, and shelooked up and kissed him.
"Good-bye, dear," she whispered. "You mustn't detain me----"
"You shall not go outside----"
"I've got to. Be reasonable, dear. My sick are under fire."
The bugle was sounding now; his arms fell from her waist; shesmiled at him, stepped outside, and started to run; and found himkeeping pace between her and the west.
"You should not do that!" she panted, striving to pass him, but hekept his body in line with the incoming missiles. Suddenly heseized her and dropped flat with her as a shell plunged downward,exploding in a white cloud laced with flame through which thehumming fragments scattered.
As they rose to their knees in the dust they saw mengathering--soldiers of all arms, infantry, dismounted cavalrymen,hospital guards, limping convalescents, officers armed' withrifles, waggon drivers, negroes.
"They're attacking our works at Cedar Springs," said an officerwearing one hand in a sling. "This hospital is in a bad place."
Ailsa clapped both hands over her ears as a shell blew up at theangle of an outhouse and the ground rocked violently; then, palebut composed, she sprang inside the hospital door and ran for herward.
It was full of pungent smoke; a Parrott shell had passed through awindow, carrying everything away in its path, and had burst,terrifying the sick men lying there, but not injuring anybody.
And now a flare of light and a crash outside marked the descent ofanother shell. The confusion and panic among the wounded wasterrible; ward-masters, nurses, surgeons, ran hither and thither,striving to quiet the excited patients as shell after shell rushedyelling overhead or exploded with terrific force, raining itswhirring iron fragments over roof and chimney.
Ailsa, calm
and collected in the dreadful crisis, stood at the endof the ward, directing the unnerved stretcher bearers,superintending the carrying out of cots to the barns, which stoodin the shelter of the rising ground along the course of the littlestream.
Letty appeared from the corridor behind her; and Ailsa smiled andkissed her lightly on the cheek; and the blood came back to thegirl's face in a passion of gratitude which even the terror ofdeath could not lessen or check.
"Ailsa--darling--" she whispered; then shuddered in the violence ofan explosion that shattered the window-glass beside her,
"We're taking them to the old barns, Letty," said Ailsa, steadyingher voice. "Will you take charge here while I go to Colonel Arran?"
"They've taken him out," whispered Letty. "That ward is on fire.Everybody is out. W-what a cruel thing for our boys! Some of themwere getting well! Can you come now?"
"As soon as they carry out young Spencer. He's the last. . . .Look from the window! They're trying to put out the fire withwater in buckets. O--h!" as a shell struck and the flame flashedout through a geyser of sand and smoke.
"Come," murmured Letty. "I will stay if there is anything to stayfor----"
"No, dear; we can go. Give me your hand; this smoke is horrible.Everything is on fire, I think. . . . Hurry, Letty!"
She stumbled, half suffocated, but Letty kept her hand fast andguided her to the outer air.
A company of cavalry, riding hard, passed in a whirlwind of dust.After them, clanking, thudding, pounding, tore a battery, horses ona dead run,
The west wing of the seminary was on fire; billows of sooty smokerolled across the roof and blew downward over the ground where theforms of soldiers could be seen toiling to and fro with buckets.
Infantry now began to arrive, crowding the main road on the doublequick, mounted officers cantering ahead. Long lines of them wereswinging out east and west across the country, where a battery wentinto action wrapped in torrents of smoke.
Bullets swarmed, singing above and around in every key, and thedistracting racket of the shrapnel shells became continuous.
Ailsa and Letty ran, stooping, into the lane where the stretcherswere being hurried across the little footbridge. As they crossedthey saw a dead artilleryman lying in the water, a crimson threadwavering from his head to the surface. It was Arthur Wye; andLetty knew him, and halted, trembling; but Ailsa called to her in afrightened voice, for, confused by the smoke, they had come out inthe rear of a battery among the caissons, and the stretchers hadturned to the right, filing down into the hollow where the barnsstood on the edge of a cedar grove.
Already men were hard at work erecting hospital tents; the woundedlay on their stretchers, bloodless faces turned to the sky, thewind whipping their blankets and uncovering their naked, emaciatedbodies. The faces of the dead had turned black.
"Good God!" said Dr. Benton as Letty and Ailsa came up, outof'breath, "we've got to get these sick men under shelter! Can youtwo girls keep their blankets from blowing away?"
They hurried from cot to cot, from mattress to mattress, from oneheap of straw to another, from stretcher to stretcher, deftlyreplacing sheet and blanket, tucking them gently under, whisperingcourage, sometimes a gay jest or smiling admonition to the helplessmen, soothing, petting, reassuring.
The medical director with his corps of aides worked furiously toget up the big tents. The smoke from the battery blew east andsouth, flowing into the hollow in sulphurous streams; the uproarfrom the musketry was terrific.
Ailsa, kneeling beside a stretcher to tuck in the blankets, lookedup over her shoulder suddenly at Letty.
"Where did they take Colonel Arran?"
"I don't know, dear."
Ailsa rose from her knees and looked around her through the flyingsmoke; then she got wearily to her feet and began to makeinquiries. Nobody seemed to know anything about Colonel Arran.
Anxious, she threaded her way through the stretchers and thehurrying attendants, past the men who were erecting the tents,looking everywhere, making inquiries, until, under the trees by thestream, she saw a heap of straw on which a man was dying.
He died as she came up--a big, pallid, red-headed zouave, whoseblanket, soaked with blood, bore dreadful witness of his end.
A Sister of Charity rose as though dazed.
"I could not stop the hemorrhage," she said in her soft, bewilderedvoice.
Together they turned back toward the mass of stretchers, movingwith difficulty in the confusion. Letty, passing, glanced wanly atthe Sister, then said to Ailsa:
"Colonel Arran is in the second barn on the hay. I am afraid he isdying."
Ailsa turned toward the barns and hurried across the trampled sod.
Through the half light within she peered about her, movingcarefully among the wounded stretched out on the fragrant hay.
Colonel Arran lay alone in the light of a window high under theeaves.
"Oh, here you are!" she said gaily. "I hear most most splendidthings about you. I--" she stopped short, appalled at the terriblechange that was coming over his face.
"I want to see--Phil--" he whispered.
"Yes--yes, I will find him," she said soothingly; "I will goimmediately and find him."
His head was moving slowly, monotonously, from side to side.
"I want to see my boy," he murmured. "He is my son. I wish you toknow it--my only son."
He lifted his brilliant eyes to Ailsa.
Twice he strove to speak, and could not, and she watched him,stunned.
He made the supreme effort.
"Philip!" he gasped; "our son! My little son! My little, littleboy! I want him, Ailsa, I want him near me when I die!"