The officer was
writing a letter in another room, and in a low, impressive voice, the
sergeant was telling a story which was listened to with breathless
attention. John Broom was fond of stories, and he listened also.
It was of a friend of the sergeant's, who had been a boy with him in the
same village at home, who had seen active service with him abroad, and
who had slept at his post on such a night as this, from the joint
effects of cold and drink. It was war time, and he had been tried by
court-martial, and shot for the offence. The sergeant had been one of
the firing party to execute his friend, and they had taken leave of each
other as brothers, before the final parting face to face in this last
awful scene.
The man's voice was faltering, when the tale was cut short by the
jingling of the field officer's accoutrements as he rode by to visit the
outposts. In an instant the officer and men turned out to receive him;
and, after the usual formalities, he rode on. The officer went back to
his letter, and the sergeant and his men to their fireside.
The opening of the doors had let in a fresh volume of cold, and one of
the men called to John Broom to mend the fire. But he was gone.
* * * * *
John Broom was fleet of foot, and there are certain moments which lift
men beyond their natural powers, but he had set himself a hard task.
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