Thus it was that day all around the shining circle of sheathed bayonets,
silent carbines, and dumb cannon-mouths at the American trenches around
Santiago, where the fighting was done.
And on a little knoll not far away stood Sergeant Crittenden, swaying on
his feet--colour-sergeant to the folds of the ever-victorious,
ever-beloved Old Glory waving over him, with a strange new wave of
feeling surging through him. For then and there, Crittenden, Southerner,
died straightway and through a travail of wounds, suffering, sickness,
devotion, and love for that flag--Crittenden, American, was born. And
just at that proud moment, he would feel once more the dizziness seize
him. The world would turn dark, and again he would sink slowly.
And again, when all this was over, the sick man would go back to the
long grass and tramp it once more until his legs ached and his brain
swam. And when it was the hill that he could see, he was quiet and got
rest for a while; and when it was the figure of Judith--he knew now that
it was Judith--he would call aloud for her, just as he did in the
hospital at Siboney. And always the tramp through the long grass would
begin again-Tramp--tramp--tramp.
He was very tired, but there was the long grass ahead of him, and he
must get through it somehow.
Tramp--tramp--tramp.
* * * * *