“We must be getting on, miss,” spoke the mountaineer, after a few moments of silence.
“And leave him like that?” cried the girl aghast.
“There is naught else to be done,” he replied gravely. “We have nothing to bury him with.”
“But ’tis wrong,” remonstrated she, kneeling beside the dead vidette, and touching his brow reverently. “He died for his country, friend.”
“Tell them at the camp,” suggested he. “Mayhap they will send out and get him.”
“Yes; that is what we must do,” she said. “I could not bear to think of him lying here without Christian burial.”
“And what is it now, miss?” questioned Hart, as she still lingered.
“Could we cut a lock from his hair, friend? For his wife! I know that mother and I would wish if father—if father——” Peggy faltered and choked.
Silently Hart drew out his hunting-knife and severed a lock of hair from the vidette’s head, which the maiden placed with the despatches in the bosom of her gown. Then taking the kerchief from about her throat she spread it over his face, and followed the mountaineer back to the road. As they left the spot the horse resumed his former position, and a last glance from Peggy showed the faithful creature standing guard over the dead form of his master.
“Whatever made you so long, Joe?” cried his wife petulantly. “The baby’s that fretful that I don’t know what to do with her. She’s jest wore out, and we must get where something can be done for her.”