“Cap'n Tom, Cap'n Tom,” he whispered—“don't you know me—the Bishop?”
The man smiled reassuringly and slipped his hand, as a child might, into that of the old man.
“A-l-i-c-e”—he slowly and stutteringly pronounced again, as he pointed down the road toward Westmoreland.
“My God,” said the Bishop as he wiped away the tears on the back of his hand—“my God, but that blow has spiled God's noblest gentleman.” Then there rushed over him a wave of self-reproach as he raised his head heavenward and said:
“Almighty Father, forgive me! Only this morning I doubted You; and now, now, You have sent me po' Cap'n Tom!”
“You'll go home with me, Cap'n Tom!” he added cheerily.
The man smiled and nodded.
“A-l-i-c-e,” again he repeated.
There was the sound of some one riding, and as the Bishop turned Ben Butler around Alice Westmore rode up, sitting her saddle mare with that natural grace which comes only when the horse and rider have been friends long enough to become as one. Richard Travis rode with her.
The Bishop paled again: “My God,” he muttered—“but she mustn't know this is Cap'n Tom! I'd ruther she'd think he's dead—to remember him only as she knowed him last.”