And now it was the eye of Meriwether Lewis that suddenly was wet; it was his voice that trembled.
“Boy,” said he, “I am your officer. Your officer asks your pardon. I have tried myself. I was guilty. Will you forget this?”
“Not a word to a soul in the world, Captain!” broke out Shannon. “About a woman, you see, we do not talk.”
“No, Mr. Shannon, about a woman we gentlemen do not talk. But now tell me, boy, what can I do for you—what can I ever do for you?”
“Nothing in the world, Captain—but just one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Please, sir, tell me that you don’t think me a coward!”
“A coward? No, Shannon, you are the bravest fellow I ever met!”
The hand on the boy’s shoulder was kindly now. The right hand of Captain Meriwether Lewis sought that of Private George Shannon. The madness of the trail, of the wilderness—the madness of absence and of remorse—had swept by, so that Lewis once more was officer, gentleman, just and generous man.
Shannon stooped and picked up the coat that his captain had cast from him. He held it up, and aided his commander again to don it. Then, saluting, he marched off to his bivouac bed.