‘He can’t be a Russian, Will,’ he said; ‘none of them wear scarlet.’
Then, raising his voice, he cried, ‘Hi there, who are you?’
The man in front, halted and turned round, when Jack and Will, getting nearer, to their surprise saw he was a British Dragoon.
‘Who are you, and what are you doing here?’ asked Jack.
‘I might as well ask you that,’ replied the Dragoon, recognising the uniform of the 17th; ‘but I’m Denis O’Callaghan of the Inniskillings, and I’m looking for my cousin Larry. He’s in the 8th Hussars, and I’m told he’s not with his regiment, so I could not rest till I tried to find the poor bhoy’s body.’
‘He is one of my best friends,’ said Jack; ‘I’m here as much to find him as anybody.’
Together, then, the three searched, and presently they came across several Hussars in blue and yellow. One was lying on his face, and in an instant Jack saw the gold chevrons of a sergeant glittering faintly in the moonlight. There was a trumpet on his back too, and Jack’s heart grew heavy as he saw it.
Gently he stepped up to the body and turned it over. Larry’s well-known features were exposed. Jack dropped on his knees and raised his friend’s head; his face was white as marble. He felt under the laced jacket; all was cold and still and silent, the faithful heart had ceased to beat. Tears, of which Jack was not ashamed, dropped on poor Larry’s face.
‘True comrade, faithful heart,’ Jack murmured, ‘God has willed that you shall never be trumpet-major of the 8th; but you have gone to join that nobler army in the ranks of which we must all sooner or later answer to our names.’
‘Ochone, ochone!’ wailed the big Dragoon; ‘shure this will be a sad day for ould Con O’Callaghan. Larry was the apple of his eye, his favourite son, who followed in the ould man’s footsteps. Wirra, wirra, Larry darlint, spake to me!’