"A breath of good honest prayer would serve better than all your fun,"
groaned the sergeant, soberly.
The gray eyes resting thoughtfully on the old soldier's haggard face
became instantly grave and earnest.
"Sincerely I wish I might aid you with one," the man admitted, "but I
fear, old fellow, any prayer coming from my lips would never ascend
very far. However, I might try the comfort of a hymn, and you will
remember this one, which, no doubt, you have helped to sing back in
God's country."
There was a moment's hushed pause, during which a rifle cracked sharply
out in the ravine; then the reckless fellow, his head partially
supported against the protecting bowlder, lifted up a full, rich
barytone in rendition of that hymn of Christian faith-"Nearer, my God, to Thee!
Nearer to Thee!
E'en though it be a cross
That raiseth me,
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee!
Nearer to Thee."
Glazed and wearied eyes glanced cautiously toward the singer around the
edges of protecting rocks; fingers loosened their grasp upon the rifle
barrels; smoke-begrimed cheeks became moist; while lips, a moment
before profaned by oaths, grew silent and trembling. Out in front a
revengeful brave sent his bullet swirling just above the singer's head,
the sharp fragments of rock dislodged falling in a shower upon his
upturned face; but the fearless rascal sang serenely on to the end,
without a quaver.
"Mistake it for a death song likely," he remarked dryly, while the last
clear, lingering note, reechoed by the cliff, died reluctantly away in
softened cadence. "Beautiful old song, sergeant, and I trust hearing
it again has done you good. Sang it once in a church way back in New
England. But what is the trouble? Did you call me for some special
reason?"
"Yes," came the almost gruff response; for Wyman, the fever stealing
back upon him, felt half ashamed of his unshed tears. "That is,
provided you retain sufficient sense to listen. Old Gillis was shot
over an hour ago, yonder behind that big bowlder, and his girl sits
there still holding his head in her lap. She'll get hit also unless
somebody pulls her out of there, and she's doing no good to
Gillis--he's dead."
Hampton's clear-cut, expressive face became graver, all trace of
recklessness gone from it. He lifted his head cautiously, peering over
his rock cover toward where he remembered earlier in the fight Gillis
had sought refuge.