All night they watched by his bed, and every few moments he would raise up suddenly, look anxiously around the tent, and say in a stage whisper: “Don’t let her know.”
A few days later they took him away. He was not to lead his brave scouts again. His reason failed to return. I never knew what became of his wife, but I have been told that she is still watching for the window of his brain to open up, when his absent soul will look out and see her waiting with the old-time love for him.
One of his old comrades called to see him at the asylum, a few years ago, and was recognized by the demented man. To him his wound was as painful as ever, and as he limped to his old friend, his face wore a look of intense agony, while he repeated, just as his comrades had heard him repeat an hundred times, this from Swinburne:
“Oh, bitterness of things too sweet,
Oh, broken singing of the dove.
Love’s wings are over-fleet,
And like the panther’s feet
The feet of Love.”
“Good-by, Jim,” said the visitor, with tears in his voice.
“Good-by,” said Jim. Then glancing about, he came closer and whispered: “Don’t let her know.”