"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.




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