The soldier spoke, his accents feebly fell,
Irene drew near to catch what he might say.
“I have short time for what I fain would tell,”
He thus began, “this tenement of clay
Must soon dissolve—flit life and light away.
It is a tale to fright thy timid ear,
And yet a burden on my soul doth weigh,
That will not let it part. Nay, do not fear;
Though shadows cloud my mind, soon light will reappear.”
XV.
“Southward we turned.” He paused; then soon began,
“But three days since, albeit it may be more,
By chance we faced the foe, I slew a man;—
Oh, start not, gentle maid,—’twill soon be o’er.
He stood a sentry at the post which bore
His trust. We took the army by surprise;
’Twas night, and few there were; perchance three-score
Prisoners were made. Nay, hide not thus thine eyes;
Remorse can rend a heart that Pity would despise.
XVI.
“The skirmish o’er, by chance I found my way
To where the sentry fell, thinking ’twere best
If yet he lived. I had not meant to slay—
He turned on me—my sword pierced through his breast.
Oh! even at times a soldier’s heart’s oppressed
With pity, too. I saw him writhing still
In agony. The gaping wound undressed
Was pouring out his life. My heart grows chill
Even yet; O God! I thought how slight a thing can kill.
XVII.
“I stooped beside and strove to staunch the wound.
‘ ’Tis vain,’ he said, ‘a trust I’ll give to thee.’
He bade me loose a packet which was bound
Beneath his cloak. ‘I charge thee take,’ said he,
‘This token to the one who gave it me;
Her picture it contains. Tell her I died
While at the post of duty. Thou mayest see
Her name within.’ He turned upon his side,
And slowly ebbed away life’s dim-receding tide.