He looked at the high-born donor without shrinking or quailing, and, with a sad, sad smile on his face, so thin and wan—for the eye of One who is greater than all the kings of the earth was on him now—the sufferer spoke, but in long and feeble utterances.
"My auld father aye said I need never—never look for—my reward in this world; but—but this day I hae gotten it."
And he pressed the rose to his thin blue lips.
"Are you easy, my poor fellow?" asked the commandant.
"Ye-yes, sir—thank you—very easy,"
"Is there anything you would wish?"
"I would wish to be laid—in the old kirk-yard at hame, where my—my mither lies under a saugh tree—but—but it canna be. God has been gude to me—I might hae found a grave for ever far awa' in the Crimea—and—and no within the sound o' a Christian bell."
His head fell back and turned on one side, as the eyes glazed and the jaw relaxed. The Queen—good little woman—drew back, with her handkerchief at her eyes, and the spirit of my faithful comrade—this poor victim of the war—passed away.
The Queen's white rose is buried with Poor Willie Pitblado. His grave is in the military cemetery, under the shadow of the great Spur Battery.
I know the place well, and a stone placed by Sir Nigel Calderwood marks it.