And he dropped back like stone, the gems falling from his hand, which twitched spasmodically on the ground and then was still. Saint-Prosper bent over him, but the heart, famished for nourishment, had ceased to beat; the restless, wayward soul had fled from its tabernacle of dust. Save for the stain on his breast and the fixedness of his eyes, he might have been sleeping.
Mechanically the soldier gathered the sapphires, emeralds and other gems––flashing testimony of that thankless past––and, leaning against the wall, gazed afar to the snow-capped volcanoes. Even as he looked, the vapors arose from the solfataras of the “smoking mountain” and a vast shower of cinders and stones was thrown into the air. Unnoticed passed the eruption before the gaze of Saint-Prosper, whose mind in a torpor swept dully back to youth’s roseate season, recalling the homage of the younger for the elder brother, a worship as natural as pagan adoration of the sun. From the sanguine fore-time to the dead present lay a bridge of darkness. With honor within grasp, deliberately he had sought dishonor, 462 little recking of shame and murder, and childishly husbanding green, red and blue pebbles!
Weighing the stones in his hand now, Ernest Saint-Prosper looked at them long and bitterly. For these the honor and pride of an old family had been sold. For these he himself had endured the reflected disgrace; isolation from comradeship; distrust which had blighted his military career at the outset. How different had been the reality from his expectations; the buoyant hopes of youth; the fond anticipation of glory, succeeded by stigma and stain! And, as the miserable, perplexing panorama of these later years pictured itself in his brain he threw, with a sudden gesture, the gems far from him, over the wall, out toward the valley!
Like dancing beams of color, they flashed a moment in mid air; then mingled their hues with the rainbow tints of a falling stream. Lost to sight, they sank in the crystal waters which leaped with a caressing murmur toward the table-land; only the tiny spectrum, vivid reminder of their color, still waved and wavered from rock to rock above a pellucid pool.
“I beg your pardon, Colonel,” said a voice at his elbow, breaking in upon his reflections; “are you wounded?”
With drawn features, the officer turned.
“No; I am not wounded.”
“The general directs you to take this message to the commanding general,” continued the little aide. “I believe I may congratulate you, sir, for you will 463 have the honor of bearing the news of the victory.” He handed Saint-Prosper a sealed message. “It’s been a glorious day, sir, but”––gazing carelessly around him––“has cost many a brave life!”
“Yes, many a life!” answered the other, placing the message in his breast and steadfastly regarding for the last time the figure beneath the gun.
“We ought to be in the City of Mexico in a day or two, sir,” resumed the aide. “Won’t it be jolly though, after forced marches and all that sort of thing! Fandangos; tambourines; cymbals! And the pulque! What creatures of the moment we are, sir!” he added, with sudden thoughtfulness. “’Twill be, after all, like dancing over the graves of our dear comrades!”