But the sun had dropped behind
the river bank, the little ravine was in shadow, and the chill of
the grave was on the young man's pain-racked frame.
Shadows crossed his brain, among them Si Sylvanne with his quaint
sayings, and one above all was clear:
"Trouble is only sent to make ye do yer best. When ye hev done
yer best, keep calm and wait. Things is comin' all right." Yes,
that was what he said, and the mockery of it hurt him now.
The sunset slowly ended; the night wind blew; the dragging hours
brought gloom that entered in. This seemed indeed the direst
strait of his lot. Crippled, dying of cold, helpless, nothing to
do but wait and die, and from his groaning lips there came the
half-forgotten prayer his mother taught him long ago, "O God,
have mercy on me!" and then he forgot.
When he awoke, the stars were shining; he was numb with cold, but
his mind was clear.
"This is war," he thought, "and God knows we never sought it."
And again the thought: "When I offered to serve my country, I
offered my life. I am willing to die, but this is not a way of my
choosing," and a blessed, forgetfulness came upon him again.
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