"They're halting in front of us, David," said the nurse. So they were; David could see them.
The music reached the end of the tune and stopped. A shout broke upon the air; it was a cheer. It took words, and swelled into David's room; but it was a gentle cheer, not a vociferous one. It was given by Lieutenant Roger Thorndyke's old company. And the words of it were wonderful:
"'Rah, 'rah, 'rah—comrade!"
David lay back on his pillow, his face shining with happiness. He would never forget that those soldiers of his father's regiment, the ——th New York, had called him comrade. He thought of them tenderly; he murmured the closing words of the "Charge," and by them he meant the men who had stood outside his window and cheered:
"When can their glory fade?
O th' wild charge they made!
All th' world wonder'd.
Honour th' charge they made!
Honour th' Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!"
An hour afterward they came in together, his four Thorndyke soldiers, in their uniforms—all but Uncle Arthur, who, because he was a clergyman, and had had to make a speech, had felt obliged to put on a frock coat.
"Here's the fellow who's been worrying over his Memorial Day address!" cried Uncle Stephen proudly.
"It was a rousing good one," declared Stuart.
"Never heard a better," agreed Uncle Chester. "He's gone 'half a league onward,' if the rest of us have stood still."