A War-Time Wooing Part 12

The clutching fingers of one hand clasp about the slim envelope that contains the little photograph; the fingers of the other hand are plucking nervously at the blanket that is thrown over the dying man.

There is another moment of silence, and then Abbot again asks him if he will have his brother brought to him. Hollins nods, and Abbot goes to the door and whispers a few words to the orderly. When he returns a feeble hand gropes its way towards him, and Hollins looks up appealingly.

"I'm so much weaker. I'm going fast. Would you shake hands, Abbot? What!

Then you bear me no ill-will?"

"I do not, Hollins."

The clouding eyes seem to seek his wistfully, wonderingly.

"And yet--I wronged you so."

"Do not think of me. That--all came right."

"I know--I know. It is _her_ heart I may have broken--Bessie's. My G.o.d!

What could she have thought when he came back to her--after seeing you?"

"He told her her lover was dead. I made inquiries."

"Thank G.o.d for that! But all the same--she is sorrowing--suffering--and it's all my doing. I believe I could die content, almost happy, if I knew she had not--if I knew--I had not--brought her misery."

"Are you sure, Hollins?"

"Sure! Heaven, yes! Why, Abbot? Do you--do _you_ know?"

"She seems happy, Hollins. She is to be married in the spring; I don't know just when."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_Draws forth her precious picture and lays it at a rival's feet._"]

There is another moment of intense silence in the little room. Outside the m.u.f.fled tramp of the night patrols and the gruff challenge of sentries fall faintly on the ear. Within there is only the quick breathing of the sinking man. There is a long, long look from the dying eyes; a slow movement towards the well-nigh pulseless heart. Then comes the sound of heavy feet upon the stair, and presently the uncouth form of Rix is at the threshold, a piteous look in his haggard face. Abbot raises a hand in warning, and glances quickly from the prisoner at the door to the frame whence fast is ebbing the imprisoned soul. The hand that had faintly clasped his is slowly creeping up to the broad and brawny chest, so feeble now. Far across the rippling waters of the Rappahannock the notes of a bugle, prolonged and distant, soft and solemn, float upon the still night air. 'Tis the soldiers' signal "Lights Out!"--the soldiers' rude yet never-forgotten lullaby. An instant gleam as of recognition hovers in the glazing eyes. Then follow a few faint gasps; then--one last gesture as the arm falls limp and nerveless; but it draws forth her precious picture and lays it at a rival's feet.

THE END.