For an instant longer they stared at him. The red of his tunic hid the dark, widening stain. They only saw that the bullet had passed through him and left him unharmed. The older men among them remembered how in the bygone days he had passed scatheless through a hail of bullets. Then as now he had been a stupendous figure—half god.
To the younger men he was a legend. The evil that he had done them was forgotten. He was their own past—their own greatness—the greatness of their fathers. They could not touch him.
"Gentlemen—form your men into their companies. Lead them back to the barracks. Remember—what I tell you—this night is to be forgotten."
The little group of Englishmen behind him obeyed tranquilly. There was the sound of rifles being stacked. The disorderly crowd formed automatically into sections. The scene had lasted five minutes. Now it was finished.
But Boucicault turned Arabella's head and rode slowly back, and Tristram, who had seen that black stain upon the tunic, followed him.
Mrs. Boucicault stood separate from the rest upon the balcony and waited. She was smiling. There was no fear—only a girlish pride, a tragic happiness written on the grey face. As he came within the lights of the verandah she waved to him, and he saluted her with a chivalrous dignity.
Then he toppled from his seat into Tristram's arms.
They carried him into the bungalow and set him gently on one of the sofas. His wife knelt down beside him and he put his arm about her and held her close to him.
"There is nothing to be done—the whole breast. I am too old a soldier not to know. Please leave us these few minutes. We have so much to say to one another." But to Tristram he gave his hand, drawing him down so that his face almost touched the dying lips. "Major I'm—sorry—about—your dog——"
Tristram knew then that at the last it was not oblivion, but resurrection.