"So it is all over," he said softly, but he said it with a smile.
Yes! It was all over. Down on the parade ground behind the Ridge the bugles were sounding, and the men who had clung to the red rocks for so long were preparing to leave them for assault elsewhere.
But one man was taking an eternal hold upon them; for John Nicholson was being laid in his grave. Not in the rear-guard, however, but in the van, on the outer-most spur of the Ridge abutting on the city wall, within touch almost of the Cashmere gate. Being laid in his grave--by his own request--without escort, without salute; for he knew that he had failed.
So he lies there facing the city he took. But his real grave was in that narrow lane within the walls where those who dream can see him still, alone, ahead, with yards of sheer sunlight between him and his fellow-men.
Yards of sheer sunlight between that face with its confident glance forward, that voice with its clear cry, "Come on, men! Come on!" and those--the mass of men--who with timorous look backward hear in that call to go forward nothing but the vain regret for things familiar that must be left behind. "Going! Going! Gone!"
So, in a way, John Nicholson stands symbol of the many lives lost uselessly in the vain attempt to go forward too fast.
Yet his voice echoed still to the dark faces and the light alike:
"Come on, men! Come on!"