“Well, the rest of the story can be told in few words. Bob didn’t die. The doctors pulled him safely through, and saved a life that might better have been allowed to slip away. For when the fever that followed upon the shock of the wound had burned itself out, the delirium remained, and all that was left of as fine a man as ever served was a hopelessly insane wreck.
“It’s twelve years since I’ve seen him. They wouldn’t let me come to visit him at the asylum, fearing that the sight of me might affect him unfavorably. Poor Bob! he’s been out of the world for all that time—waiting to wear out! From time to time I’ve had reports from the doctors, but never a cheering one until to-day, when I received a letter from Bob himself—and by the same mail got word that death had come at last to bring him his release.
“It seems that the end came very suddenly. There was a physical collapse, as if his vital machinery had run down all at once. But at the very last the cloud lifted from his mind, and before he died he had become, mentally, almost his old self. It was on his last afternoon that he dictated this letter to me.” The colonel leaned forward and took the envelope from his desk. “I’m going to read you a paragraph or two from it, because it concerns you, in a way.”
The colonel glanced at his two listeners. Van Sickles was smoking calmly, as is his wont. Pollard’s cigar had gone out, and he was bending forward in his chair, with his eyes expectantly fixed upon the chief. It was evident that he was not a little moved by what he had heard.
“Here’s what he says,” said the colonel, rapidly glancing through the contents of one sheet, and beginning to read from the second: “‘They tell me, Harry, that you’ve found it impossible to stay out of the service, even in these peaceful times, and that you’ve a command of your own—that it’s fallen to you to be at the head of the regiment that’s keeping our old name and number alive. If that’s true, I’ve a favor to ask from you. Don’t think it the whim of a madman, for it’s not. To come to it at once, I want a major’s escort when they put me away. It’s my soberly sane desire, and the last one that I shall have in this world. You’ll see that I’m not disappointed? I knew you would, and I’ll thank you in advance. Perhaps you’d do well to let the boys of the ‘Old Regiment’ know when and where the funeral will be: some of them might like to be there. But I’ll leave it all to you.’”
The colonel paused. His voice had become just the least bit unsteady. To cover his feelings he struck a match, but forgot to apply it to his cigar until it had burned down so far that he had to drop it hastily upon the floor.
“Is that all, sir?” asked Pollard, when the colonel stopped reading.
“Perhaps I might give you the last paragraph,” replied the chief huskily, again turning to the sheet that he held. “‘Good-bye, Harry,’ it runs. ‘I’m tiring fast, and the nurse says I must stop and rest. You’ll remember about the escort? I’ve no family left, and few friends, so I must look to you for everything. We’ll meet again sometime, I’ve a firm conviction. Things will be happier then, and brighter. So good-bye once more, old fellow, and God bless—.’” The colonel choked, and stopped abruptly.
Major Pollard pulled himself up from his chair. “Will you order out my battalion as escort, sir?” he asked earnestly. “I should consider it a great honor, and I’m sure that the men would look at it in the same way.”
“I hope you’ll find something for me to do,” began Van Sickles, coming towards the colonel’s desk. “I’d be glad to help in any way; about flowers, or music, or—”