“I could not tell him a lie.  I could not say anything.  I only pressed his hand in mine, as he went on.

“’But you will see father, and ask him to forgive me.  Nobody is to blame but myself.  It was a long time before I understood why the drum came to me that Christmas night, and why it kept calling to me every night, and what it said.  I know it now.  The work is done, and I am content.  Tell father it is better as it is.  I should have lived only to worry and perplex him, and something in me tells me this is right.’

“He lay still for a moment, and then, grasping my hand, said,—­

“‘Hark!’

“I listened, but heard nothing but the suppressed moans of the wounded men around me.  ‘The drum,’ he said faintly; ’don’t you hear it?  The drum is calling me.’

“He reached out his arm to where it lay, as though he would embrace it.

“‘Listen,’ he went on, ’it’s the reveille.  There are the ranks drawn up in review.  Don’t you see the sunlight flash down the long line of bayonets?  Their faces are shining,—­they present arms,—­there comes the General; but his face I cannot look at, for the glory round his head.  He sees me; he smiles, it is—­” And with a name upon his lips that he had learned long ago, he stretched himself wearily upon the planks, and lay quite still.

“That’s all.  No questions now; never mind what became of the drum.  Who’s that snivelling?  Bless my soul, where’s my pill-box?”