Death And The Soldier
by
A soldier, who had won imperishable fame on the battlefields of his country, was confronted by a gaunt stranger, clad all in black and wearing an impenetrable mask.
“Who are you that you dare to block my way?” demanded the soldier.
Then the stranger drew aside his mask, and the soldier knew that he was Death.
“Have you come for me?” asked the soldier. “If so, I will not go with you; so go your way alone.”
But Death held out his bony hand and beckoned to the soldier.
“No,” cried the soldier, resolutely; “my time is not come. See, here are the histories I am writing–no hand but mine can finish them–I will not go till they are done!”
“I have ridden by your side day and night,” said Death; “I have hovered about you on a hundred battlefields, but no sight of me could chill your heart till now, and now I hold you in my power. Come!”
And with these words Death seized upon the soldier and strove to bear him hence, but the soldier struggled so desperately that he prevailed against Death, and the strange phantom departed alone. Then when he had gone the soldier found upon his throat the imprint of Death’s cruel fingers–so fierce had been the struggle. And nothing could wash away the marks–nay, not all the skill in the world could wash them away, for they were disease, lingering, agonizing, fatal disease. But with quiet valor the soldier returned to his histories, and for many days thereafter he toiled upon them as the last and best work of his noble life.
“How pale and thin the soldier is getting,” said the people. “His hair is whitening and his eyes are weary. He should not have undertaken the histories–the labor is killing him.”
They did not know of his struggle with Death, nor had they seen the marks upon the soldier’s throat. But the physicians who came to him, and saw the marks of Death’s cruel fingers, shook their heads and said the soldier could not live to complete the work upon which his whole heart was set. And the soldier knew it, too, and many a time he paused in his writing and laid his pen aside and bowed his head upon his hands and strove for consolation in the thought of the great fame he had already won. But there was no consolation in all this. So when Death came a second time he found the soldier weak and trembling and emaciated.
“It would be vain of you to struggle with me now,” said Death. “My poison is in your veins, and, see, my dew is on your brow. But you are a brave man, and I will not bear you with me till you have asked one favor, which I will grant.”
“Give me an hour to ask the favor,” said the soldier. “There are so many things–my histories and all–give me an hour that I may decide what I shall ask.”
And as Death tarried, the soldier communed with himself. Before he closed his eyes forever, what boon should he ask of Death? And the soldier’s thoughts sped back over the years, and his whole life came to him like a lightning flash–the companionship and smiles of kings, the glories of government and political power, the honors of peace, the joys of conquest, the din of battle, the sweets of a quiet home life upon a western prairie, the gentle devotion of a wife, the clamor of noisy boys, and the face of a little girl–ah, there his thoughts lingered and clung.
“Time to complete our work–our books–our histories,” counselled Ambition. “Ask Death for time to do this last and crowning act of our great life.”
But the soldier’s ears were deaf to the cries of Ambition; they heard another voice–the voice of the soldier’s heart–and the voice whispered: “Nellie–Nellie–Nellie.” That was all–no other words but those, and the soldier struggled to his feet and stretched forth his hands and called to Death; and, hearing him calling, Death came and stood before him.