He was
striding, his running was done, the sun was low in the west, his
feet were bleeding, the courier was brain worn and leg worn, but
he strode and strode. He passed by homes but heeded them not.
"Come in and rest," called one who saw nothing but a weary
traveller. Rolf shook his head, but gave no word and strode
along. A mile -- a short mile now; he must hold out; if he sat
down he feared he could not rise. He came at last in sight of the
fort; then, gathering all his force, he broke into a trot, weak,
so weak that had he fallen, he could scarcely have got up, and
slow, but faster than a walk: and so, as the red sun sank, he
passed the gate. He had no right to give tidings to any but the
general, yet they read it in his eyes. The guard broke into a
cheer, and trotting still, though reeling, Rolf had kept his
word, had made his run, had brought the news, and had safely
reached his goal.
Chapter 74. Van Trumper's Again
Why should the scout bringing good news be differently received
from the one that brings the ill? He did not make, the news, he
simply did his duty; the same in both cases. He is merely the
telegraph instrument.
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