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So Silas walked back and forth, and sang, and spouted “pieces,” and mused on the future of his life, and spouted “pieces” again, and sang in the loneliness. How the time passed, he did not know. No sound of clock, no baying of dog, no plash of waterfall, broke that utter stillness. The wind, thank God, had at last died away; and Silas paced his beat in a long oval he made for himself, under and beyond the bridge, with no sound but his own voice when he chose to raise it. He expected, as they all did, that every moment the whistle of the train, as it swept into sight a mile or more away, would break the silence; so he paced, and shouted, and sang.

“This is a man’s duty,” he said to himself: “they would not let me go with the fifth regiment,–not as a drummer boy; but this is duty such as no drummer boy of them all is doing. Company, march!” and he “stepped forward smartly” with his left foot. “Really I am placed on guard here quite as much as if I were on picket in Virginia.” “Who goes there?” “Advance, friend, and give the countersign.” Not that any one did go there, or could go there; but the boy’s fancy was ready, and so he amused himself during the first hours. Then he began to wonder whether they were hours, as they seemed, or whether this was all a wretched illusion,–that the time passed slowly to him because he was nothing but a boy, and did not know how to occupy his mind. So he resolutely said the multiplication-table from the beginning to the end, and from the end to the beginning,–first to himself, and again aloud, to make it slower. Then he tried the ten commandments. “Thou shalt have none other Gods before me:” easy to say that beneath those stars; and he said them again. No, it is no illusion. I must have been here hours long! Then he began on Milton’s hymn:–

“It was the winter wild,
While the heaven-born child,
All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies.”

“Winter wild, indeed,” said Silas aloud; and, if he had only known it, at that moment the sun beneath his feet was crossing the meridian, midnight had passed already, and Christmas day was born!

“Only with speeches fair
She wooes the gentle air
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow.”

“Innocent, indeed,” said poor Silas, still aloud, “much did he know of innocent snow!” And vainly did he try to recall the other stanzas, as he paced back and forth, round and round, and began now to wonder where his father and the others were, and if they could have come to any misfortune. Surely, they could not have forgotten that he was here. Would that train never come?

If he were not afraid of its coming at once, he would have run back to the causeway to look for their lights,–and perhaps they had a fire. Why had he not brought an axe for a fire? “That rail fence above would have served perfectly,–nay, it is not five rods to a load of hickory we left the day before Thanksgiving. Surely one of them might come up to me with an axe. But maybe there is trouble below. They might have come with an axe–with an axe–with an axe–with an–axe”–“I am going to sleep,” cried Silas,–aloud again this time,–as his head dropped heavily on the handle of the shovel he was resting on there in the lee of the stone wall. “I am going to sleep,–that will never do. Sentinel asleep at his post. Order out the relief. Blind his eyes. Kneel, sir. Make ready. Fire. That, sir, for sentinels asleep.” And so Silas laughed grimly, and began his march again. Then he took his shovel and began a great pit where he supposed the track might be beneath him. “Anything to keep warm and to keep awake. But why did they not send up to him? Why was he here? Why was he all alone? He who had never been alone before. Was he alone? Was there companionship in the stars,–or in the good God who held the stars? Did the good God put me here? If he put me here, will he keep me here? Or did he put me here to die! To die in this cold? It is cold,–it is very cold! Is there any good in my dying? The train will run down, and they will see a dead body lying under the bridge,–black on the snow, with a red lantern by it. Then they will stop. Shall I–I will–just go back to see if the lights are at the bend. I will leave the lantern here on the edge of this wall!” And so Silas turned, half benumbed, worked his way nearly out of the gorge, and started as he heard, or thought he heard, a baby’s scream. “A thousand babies are starving, and I am afraid to stay here to give them their life,” he said. “There is a boy fit for a soldier! Order out the relief! Drum-head court-martial! Prisoner, hear your sentence! Deserter, to be shot! Blindfold,–kneel, sir! Fire! Good enough for deserters!” And so poor Silas worked back again to the lantern.