III
"Firing parrty, one round blank—load!"
There is a rattle of bolts, and a dozen barrels are pointed heavenwards. The company stands rigid, except the buglers, who are beginning to finger their instruments.
"Fire!"
There is a crackling volley, and the pipes break into a brief, sobbing wail. Wayfarers upon the road below look up curiously. One or two young females with perambulators come hurrying across the grass, exhorting apathetic babies to sit up and admire the pretty funeral.
Twice more the rifles ring out. The pipes cease their wailing, and there is an expectant silence.
The drum-major crooks his little finger, and eight bugles come to the "ready." Then "Last Post," the requiem of every soldier of the King, swells out, sweet and true.
The echoes lose themselves among the dripping pines. The chaplain closes his book, takes off his spectacles, and departs.
Old Carmichael permits himself one brief look into his son's grave, resumes his crape-bound tall hat, and turns heavily away. He finds Captain Blaikie's hand waiting for him. He grips it, and says—
"Weel, the laddie has had a grand sojer's funeral. His mother will be pleased to hear that."