PAGE 5
The Example
by
The speaker stopped, for Durant had broken into a run. The moonlight showed him a group of men gathered about a prone figure. They separated and stood aside as he reached them; and he, kneeling, found in the prone figure the man who had talked with him in the afternoon of the friend who had played him false.
He was very far gone, lying in a dreadful twisted heap, his head, with its bloodstained bandages, resting on his arm. Yet Durant saw that he still lived, and tried with gentle hands to ease the strain of his position.
With a sharp gasp, Ford opened his eyes.
“Hullo!” he said. “It’s you, is it? Did they get the water?”
“They have got it by now,” the doctor answered.
“Ah!” The man’s lips twisted in a difficult smile. He struggled bravely to keep the mortal agony out of his face. “Gave you the slip that time,” he gasped. “Disobeyed orders, too. But it didn’t matter–except for example. You must tell them, eh? Dying men have privileges.”
“Tell him he’d have had the V. C. for it,” whispered the officer in command, over the doctor’s shoulder.
Durant complied, and caught the quick gleam that shot up in the dying eyes at his words.
“The gods were always behind time–with me,” came the husky whisper. “I used to think I’d scale Olympus, but–they kicked me down. If–if there’s any water to spare, when it’s gone round, I–I—-“
He broke off with a rending cough. Some one put a tin cup into the doctor’s hand, and he held it to the parched lips. Ford drank in great gulps, and, as he drank, the worst agony passed. His limbs relaxed after the draught, and he lay quite still, his face to the sky.
After the passage of minutes he spoke again suddenly. His voice was no longer husky, but clear and strong. His eyes were the eyes of a man who sees a vision.
“Jove!” he said. “What a princely gathering to see me carry out my bat! Don’t grin, you fellows. I know it was a fluke–a dashed fine fluke, too. But it’s what I always meant, after all. There’s good old Monty, yelling himself hoarse in the pavilion. And his girl–waving. Sweet girl, too–the best in the world. I might cut him out there. But I won’t, I won’t! I’m not such a hound as that, though she’s the only woman in the world, bless her, bless her!”
He stopped. Durant was bending over him, listening eagerly, as one might listen to the voice of an old, familiar friend, heard again after many years.
He did not speak. He seemed afraid to dispel the other’s dream. But after a moment, the man in his arms made a sudden, impulsive movement towards him. It was almost like a gesture of affection. And their eyes met.
There followed a brief silence that had in it something of strain. Then Ford uttered a shaky laugh. The vision had passed.
“So–you see–he had to die–anyhow,” he said. “My love to–your wife, dear old Monty! Tell her–I’m–awfully–pleased!”
His voice ceased, yet for a moment his lips still seemed to form words.
Durant stooped lower over him, and spoke at last with a sort of urgent tenderness.
“Leo!” he said. “Leo, old chap!”
But there came no answer save a faint, still smile. The man he called had passed beyond his reach.
* * * * *
Relief came to the beleaguered force at daybreak, and the worst incident of the campaign ended without disaster. A casualty list, published in the London papers a few days later, contained an announcement, which concerned nobody who read it, to the effect that Private Ford, of a West African Regiment, had succumbed to his wounds.