|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 39
He never remembered how long he stood gazing, earth and time and self
forgotten, at a sight not meant for mortal eyes; but suddenly, with a
stab it came to him, that if the hosts of heaven fought his battle it
was that he might do his duty, might save Captain Thornton and his men;
he turned to speak to the young man who had been with him. There was no
one there. Over the bushes the mountain breeze blew damp and cold; they
rustled softly under its touch; his horse stared at him mildly; away off
at the foot-hills he could see the diminishing dots of the fleeing
Indian ponies; as he wheeled again and looked, the hills that had been
covered with the glory of heavenly armies, lay hushed and empty. And
his friend was gone.
[Illustration: "Look!" he said, and Miles swung about toward the ridge
behind.]
Clatter of steel, jingle of harness, an order ringing out far but
clear--Miles threw up his head sharply and listened. In a second he was
pulling at his horse's girth, slipping the bit swiftly into its
mouth--in a moment more he was off and away to meet them, as a body of
cavalry swung out of the valley where the ridge had hidden them.
"Captain Thornton's troop?" the officer repeated carelessly. "Why, yes;
they are here with us. We picked them up yesterday, headed straight for
Black Wolf's war-path. Mighty lucky we found them. How about you--seen
any Indians, have you?"
Miles answered slowly: "A party of eight were on my trail; they were
riding for Massacre Mountain, where I camped, about an hour--about half
an hour--awhile ago." He spoke vaguely, rather oddly, the officer
thought, "Something--stopped them about a hundred yards from the
mountain. They turned, and rode away."
"Ah," said the officer. "They saw us down the valley."
"I couldn't see you," said Miles.
The officer smiled. "You're not an Indian, Lieutenant. Besides, they
were out on the plain and had a farther view behind the ridge." And
Miles answered not a word.
General Miles Morgan, full of years and of honors, has never but twice
told the story of that night of forty years ago. But he believes that
when his time comes, and he goes to join the majority, he will know
again the presence which guarded him through the blackness of it, and
among the angel legions he looks to find an angel, a messenger, who was
his friend.
THE AIDE-DE-CAMP
Age has a point or two in common with greatness; few willingly achieve
it, indeed, but most have it thrust upon them, and some are born old.
But there are people who, beginning young, are young forever. One might
fancy that the careless fates who shape souls--from cotton-batting, from
stone, from wood and dynamite and cheese--once in an �on catch, by
chance, a drop of the fountain of youth, and use it in their business,
and the soul so made goes on bubbling and sparkling eternally, and gray
dust of years cannot dim it. It might be imagined, in another flight of
fancy, that a spark of divine fire from the brazier of the immortals
snaps loose once in a century and lodges in somebody, and is a
heart--with such a clean and happy flame burns sometimes a heart one
knows.
On a January evening, in a room where were books and a blazing hearth,
a man with a famous name and a long record told me a story, and through
his blunt speech flashed in and out all the time the sparkle of the fire
and the ripple of the fountain. Unsuspecting, he betrayed every minute
the queer thing that had happened to him--how he had never grown up and
his blood had never grown cold. So that the story, as it fell in easy
sequence, had a charm which was his and is hard to trap, yet it is too
good a story to leave unwritten. A picture goes with it, what I looked
at as I listened: a massive head on tremendous shoulders; bright white
hair and a black bar of eyebrows, striking and dramatic; underneath,
eyes dark and alive, a face deep red-and-brown with out of doors. His
voice had a rough command in it, because, I suppose, he had given many
orders to men. I tell the tale with this memory for a setting; the
firelight, the soldierly presence, the gayety of youth echoing through
it.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|