The days following were filled with big thrilling events. The ebb and flow of battle called into action all that was best and noblest in the boys, and my Lieutenant served his Battery and wrought deeds of valor to a degree all excelling and inspiring. I knew the secret of it all, it was the thought of her, his promised wife, and of the bliss awaiting a gallant soldier's return.
It was just one week later the letter came. Few received mail that day; he was one who did. My attention was first called to him by the sound of a moan that seemed to come from a heart utterly broken. He stood leaning against a caisson staring at the letter, his face deathly white. Instinctively I realized it all. It was from her, and its message was as some stroke of lightning from a cloudless sky. Mutely he came to me, pressed the letter in my hand, and turned away.
A glance through its lines told me the worst; that while she admired his courage and unselfishness more than any man in the world, and always would, still, as she did not, could never, love him as she felt a wife should love her husband, would he now release her and give up their engagement!
Knowing him as I did, noble, unselfish, and devotedly, tenderly loving her with all his soul, most deeply did I pity him. It was the supreme hour and crisis of his life. If there were ever a time when he needed her love to sustain him, when day and night he grappled with death and fought with all his soul, as only the patriot can fight, it was now.
It was the beginning of the end. Sub-consciously I sensed impending tragedy, and was depressed beyond expression. Not indeed that he became morose, ugly or unsoldierly. On the contrary, never was he more attentive to Battery duties or considerate toward his men. Bravely would he laugh and jest and try to appear happy; but I knew it was all merely heroic endeavor, and that his heart was utterly broken. If he gave expression to his loss at all it was through his violin. It was all in a minor strain, and its notes were of the soul of one
"Who treads alone,
Some banquet hall deserted:
Whose lights are fled, and garlands dead,
All, all save he departed."
It was the afternoon of ten days later. In an orchard on a hillside his Battery had just come into position. By some alert enemy-observing plane the movement had evidently been noted, for it was not seven minutes later that a high explosive shell came screaming over the hill, directly hitting his gun, instantly killing gunner No. 1, and mortally wounding himself.
Ten minutes later I reached his side. He was still conscious, had received First Aid, but was sinking rapidly. "I am not afraid to die, Chaplain. It's my turn I guess. There is a letter here in my blouse pocket. I wrote it to her the other night. Read it, will you please, and if it is all right, post it for me when I am gone."
Blinded with my tears I carefully took the letter from his pocket. It was wet with his heart's blood. I do not now recall its every word, but in substance, it released her. "My Duchess" was the endearing title at the top of the page. It declared his deep, abiding love for her: a love so unselfish and complete as not wanting to ever, either directly or indirectly, mar her happiness. In life and death her memory would continue to be the one supreme inspiration of his life. As she requested, he had burned the letters, retaining but one, stained with a rose she had once given him.
"Oh my boy! I am proud of you," I cried, when I finished reading. "If it is all right, Chaplain, please post it when I am gone."