“I will when we turn in at the gates,” retorted his Captain. “On my soul, I swear I'll kill every sniffling idiot that doesn't!—In line, there!” he stormed ferociously at a big recruit.
The lively strains of the band and the shouting of the people grew louder and louder in the room where Crailey lay. His eyes glistened as he heard, and he smiled, not the old smile of the worldly prelate, but merrily, like a child when music is heard. The room was darkened, save for the light of the one window which fell softly upon his head and breast and upon another fair head close to his, where Fanchon knelt. In the shadows at one end of the room were Miss Betty and Mrs. Tanberry and Mrs. Bareaud and the white-haired doctor who had said, “Let him have his own way in all he asks.” Tom stood alone, close by the head of the couch.
“Hail to the band!” Crailey chuckled, softly. “How the rogues keep the time! It's 'Rosin the Bow,' all right! Ah, that is as it should be. Mrs. Tanberry, you and I have one thing in common, if you'll let me flatter myself so far: we've always believed in good cheer in spite of the devil and all, you and I, eh? The best of things, even if things are bad, dear lady, eh?”
“You darling vagabond!” Mrs. Tanberry murmured, trying to smile back to him.
“Hark to 'em!” said Crailey. “They're very near! Only hear the people cheer them! They'll 'march away so gaily,' won't they?—and how right that is!” The vanguard appeared in the street, and over the hedge gleamed the oncoming banner, the fresh colors flying out on a strong breeze. Crailey greeted it with a breathless cry. “There's the flag—look, Fanchon, your flag!—. waving above the hedge; and it's Jeff who carries it. Doesn't it always make you want to dance! Bravo, bravo!”
The procession halted for a moment in the street and the music ceased. Then, with a jubilant flourish of brass and the roll of drums, the band struck up “The Star Spangled Banner,” and Jefferson Bareaud proudly led the way through the gates and down the driveway, the bright silk streaming overhead. Behind him briskly marched the volunteers, with heads erect and cheerful faces, as they knew Corporal Gray wished to see them, their Captain flourishing his sword in the air.
“Here they come! Do you see, Fanchon?” cried Crailey, excitedly. “They are all there, Jeff and Tappingham, and the two Madrillons and Will, the dear old fellow—he'll never write a decent paragraph as long as he lives, God bless him!—and young Frank—what deviltries I've led the boy into!—and there's the old General, forgetting all the tiffs we've had. God bless them all and grant them all a safe return! What on earth are they taking off their hats for?—Ah, good-by, boys, good-by!”
They saw the white face at the window, and the slender hand fluttering its farewell, and Tappingham halted his men.
“Three times three for Corporal Gray!” he shouted, managing, somehow, to keep the smile upon his lips. “Three times three, and may he rejoin his company before we enter the Mexican capital!”
He beat the time for the thunderous cheers that they gave; the procession described a circle on the lawn, and then, with the band playing and colors flying, passed out of the gates and took up the march to the wharf.