"More atrocities by the Huns. Inhuman U-boat commander fires on life-boats escaping from torpedoed vessel."
"Well, Moreland," said Watson, "that's what we'll be coming up against in a week or two." His face was turned towards Richard as he spoke, but I saw him glance at Babe out of the corner of his eye to see how she took his remark.
Richard answered cheerfully that he looked on the prospect the same way that old "Horatius at the bridge" did. "To every man upon this earth, death cometh soon or late," and as long as he had to die some time, he'd rather go in a good cause than linger to a doddering old age, or be killed inch at a time by the germs that get you even when you do watch out.
He was sitting on the porch railing with his back against one of the white pillars, and the moon shone full on his upturned face. Remarking something about the way he used to spout Horatius on Friday afternoons, when he was a kid at school, he went on repeating from it. The expression on his face must have been the one Barby spoke of when she said he reminded her of his father in his inspired moments. He said it in a low, intense voice, as if he were speaking to himself, and thrilled with the deep meaning of it:
"And how can men die better than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of their fathers and the temples of their gods?"
Babe said afterwards it made the cold chills go down her back to hear him say it in such an impressive way, as if he'd really count it joy to die, "facing fearful odds." She was afraid maybe it was a sign he was going to. And she said that his saying what he did, as he did, suddenly made her see things in a different light, herself. That's why she got up soon after, and said that they must be going. She wanted a chance to tell Watson she'd changed her mind, and that he was right in whatever matter it was they'd been arguing about.
But before they went, George Woodson started a new song that's lately come to town. They say all the soldiers are singing it. It has a catchy sort of tune you can't resist, and in a few minutes we were all chiming in with him. It sounded awfully sweet, for George sings a lovely tenor and Richard a good bass, so we had a full quartette. It was just like old times.
"There's a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingales are singing
And a white moon beams.
There's a long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true,
Till the day—when I'll be—going down
That long, long trail with you."
We sang it over till we had learned the words, and then we couldn't get rid of it. It has such a haunting sweetness that Richard and I hummed scraps of it all the way home. After we said good night and I went up to my room, I could hear him whistling it. I leaned out of my window to listen. He whistled it all the way down the street, until he reached the Green Stairs. It sounded so happy. I wished Babe hadn't said what she did about his facing fearful odds.