But time pressed, pressed fearfully; a life hung on every minute! And Abershaw could not leave his chief to indulge in sorrow.
“My Colonel—my brave Free Sword!” he exclaimed, “rouse yourself! A soldier should not yield to grief any more than to fear.”
Corsoni sadly shook his head.
“Come, come, my chief, look up. Think of all your glorious achievements in the cause of the young Confederacy—”
“It was for her—for her, and she is gone,” moaned Corsoni.
“Then up and avenge her! Think of all that you have already done, of all that you may still do for the cause. Think what a career opens before you. When the Confederacy triumphs—”
Corsoni impatiently waved his hand and shook his head.
“The Confederacy,” said the Free Sword, bitterly. “What do you suppose I really cared for the Confederacy? I am a foreigner. What are your civil wars to me? It was for her I drew my sword. She bade me draw it in the cause of the Confederacy, and I did it, as, if she had bid me draw it in the cause of the Union, or of the Lord, or of the Devil, I would have done it. It was for her! for her! and now she is gone!—oh, my pale love! This was not what I took you from your convent for,” he added, gazing with infinite sorrow on the still face.
Then he turned to his follower, saying:
“But go and save yourself, Abershaw. You have yet something to live for.”