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The senior surgeon, as the road wound near, stepped down toward it when the horseman, still holding himself proudly erect, passed by. “Sergeant,” he hailed the guidon, “where is Captain Dovinger?”

The hand mechanically went to the boy’s forehead in the usual military salute. “Killed, sir.”

“Where are the other officers of the squadron–the junior captain, the lieutenants?”

“Killed, sir.”

“What has become of the troopers?”

“Killed, sir, in the last charge.”

There was a pause. Then Dr. Trent broke forth: “Are you a fool, boy? If your command is annihilated, why do you keep up this commotion?”

The young fellow looked blank for a moment. Then, as if he had not reasoned on the catastrophe: “I thought at first they monght be scattered–some of ’em. But ef–ef–they war dead, but could once see the guidon, sure ‘t would call ’em to life. They couldn’t be so dead but they would rally to the guidon! Guide right!” he shouted suddenly. “Dovinger’s Rangers! Rally on the guidon, boys! Rally on the reserve!”

It was a time that hardened men’s hearts. The young soldier had no physical hurt that might appeal to the professional sympathies of the senior surgeon, and he turned away with a half laugh. “Let him go along! He can’t rally Dovinger’s Rangers this side of the river Styx, it seems.”

But an old chaplain who had been hovering about the field hospital, whispering a word here and there to stimulate the fortitude of the wounded and solace the fears of the dying, recognized moral symptoms alien to any diagnosis of which the senior surgeon was capable. The latter did not deplore the diversion of interest, for the old man’s presence was not highly esteemed by the hospital corps at this scene of hasty and terrible work, although, having taken a course in medicine in early life, he was permitted to aid in certain ways. But the surgeons were wont to declare that the men began to bleat at the very sight of the chaplain. So gentle, so sympathetic, so paternal, was he that they made the more of their wretched woes, seeing them so deeply deplored. The senior surgeon, moreover, was not an ardent religionist. “This is no time for a revival, Mr. Whitmel,” he would insist. “Jack, there, never spoke the name of God in his life, except to swear by it. He is too late for prayers, and if I can’t pull him through, he is a goner!” But the chaplain was fond of quoting:

“Between the stirrup and the ground
He mercy sought and mercy found—-“

and sometimes the scene was irreverently called a “love feast” when some hard-riding, hard-swearing, hard-fighting, unthinking sinner went joyfully out of this world from the fatherly arms of the chaplain into the paternal embrace of an eternal and merciful Father, as the man of God firmly believed.

He stood now, staring after the guidon borne through the rain and the mist, flaunting red as the last leaves of autumn against the dun-tinted dusk, that the dead might view the gallant and honored pennant and rise again to its leading!

No one followed but the tall, thin figure of the gaunt old chaplain, unless indeed the trooping shadows that kept him company had mysteriously roused at the stirring summons. Lanterns were now visible, dimly flickering in one quarter where the fighting had been furious and the slain lay six deep on the ground. Their aspirations, their valor, their patriotism, had all exhaled–volatile essences, these incomparable values!–and now their bodies, weighted with death, cumbered the earth. They must be hurried out of sight, out of remembrance soon, and the burial parties were urged to diligence at the trenches where these cast-off semblances were to lie undistinguished together. And still the reflection of the burning house reddened the gloomy west, and still the cry, “Rally on the guidon! Dovinger’s Rangers!” smote the thick air.

Suddenly it was silent. The white horse that had been visible in the flare from the flaming house, now and again flung athwart the landscape, no longer loomed in the vista of the shadowy road. He had given way at last, sinking down with that martial figure still in the saddle, and, with no struggle save a mere galvanic shiver, passing away from the scene of his faithful devoirs.