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Mr. Whitmel had taken a seat in an easy-chair; he had struck a match and was composedly kindling his pipe. “I felt nearer a higher communion that day than often since,” he said.

The coterie of gentlemen looked at one another in disconsolate uncertainty, and one turned his cards face downward and laid them resignedly on the table. The party was evidently in for one of the old chaplain’s long stories, with a few words by way of application, and there was no decent opportunity to demur. They were the intruders in the smoking-room–not he! Here with his pipe and his paper, he was within the accommodation assigned him. They must hie them back to the casino to be at ease, and this would they do when he should reach the end of his story–if indeed it had an end.

For with the prolixity of the eye-witness he was detailing the points of the battle; what troops were engaged; how the flank was turned; how the reserve was delayed; how the guns were planted; how the cavalry was ordered to charge over impracticable ground, and how in consequence he saw a squadron literally annihilated; how for hours after the fight was over a sergeant of the Dovinger Rangers pervaded the field with the guidon, calling on them by name to rally.

“And, gentlemen,” he continued, turning in his chair, the fire kindling in his eyes as it died in the bowl of his pipe, “not one man responded, for none could rise from that horrid slaughter.”

There was a moment of tense silence. Then, “Back and forth the guidon flaunted, and the rain began to fall, and the night came on, and still the dusk echoed the cry, ‘Guide right! Dovinger’s Rangers! Rally on the guidon! Rally on the reserve!'”

The old chaplain stuck his pipe into his mouth and brought it aflare again with two or three strong indrawing respirations.

“The surgeons said it would end in a case of dementia. I was sorry, for I had seen much that day that hurt me, and more than all was this. For I could picture that valiant young spirit going through life, spared by God’s mercy; and it seemed to me that when the enemy, in whatever guise, should press him hard and defeat should bear him down he would have the courage and the ardor and the moral strength to rally on the reserve. He would rally on the guidon.”

The old chaplain pulled strongly at his pipe, setting the blue wreaths of smoke circling about his head. “I should know that young fellow again wherever I might chance to see him.”

“Did he collapse at last and verify the surgeon’s prophecy!” asked the dealer.

“Well,” drawled the chaplain, with a little flattered laugh, “I myself took care of that Many years ago I studied medicine, before I was favored with a higher call. Neurology was my line. When the boy’s horse sank exhausted beneath him, and he fell into a sleep or stupor on the carcass, I removed the object of the obsession. I slipped the flag-staff, guidon and all, into a crevice of the rocks, where it will remain till the end of our time, be sure.” He laughed in relish of his arbitrary intervention.

“There was a fine healthy clamor in camp the next morning about the lost guidon. But I did the soldier no damage, for he had been promoted to a lieutenancy for special gallantry on the field, and he therefore could no longer have carried the guidon if he had had both the flag and the troop.”

The stories of camp and field, thus begun, swiftly multiplied; they wore the fire to embers, and the oil sank low in the lamps. There was a chill sense of dawn in the blue-gray mist when the group, separating at last, issued upon the veranda; the moon, so long hovering over the sombre massive mountains, was slowly sinking in the west.

Among the shadows of the pillars a tall, martial figure lurked in ambush for the old chaplain, as he rounded the corner of the veranda on his way to his own quarters.

“Pa’son,” a husky voice spoke from out the dim comminglement of the mist and the moon, “’twas me that carried that guidon in Dovinger ‘s Bangers.”

“I know it,” declared the triumphant tactician. “I recognized you as soon as I saw you again.”

“I ‘m through with this,” the young mountaineer exclaimed abruptly, with an eloquent gesture of renunciation toward the deserted card-table visible through the vista of open doors. “I’m going home–to work! I’ll never forget that I was marker in Dovinger’s Rangers. I carried the guidon! And that last day I marked their way to glory! There’s nothing left of them except honor and duty, but I’ll rally on that, Chaplain. Never fear for me, again. I’ll rally on the reserve!”