God alone knows the force he put upon himself not to take her in his arms and comfort her on his breast; not to pour into her ears the words that were burning his heart out. Drops of moisture stood on his forehead as he resisted the temptation that was the stronger because he felt that she returned his love, and that these forbidden words would be her greatest comfort. But Sydney was not insensible of their subtle, unspoken sympathy, and at last yielded to the solace of warmth and the consciousness of being cared for, and, exhausted, closed her eyes in sleep.
Friedrich stirred the fire and watched its light play on the face of the woman he loved, and gave himself up to wonder and longing and regret.
Unless it had been that of Dr. Morgan himself, no other death in all the country round could have touched so nearly so many hearts. Around the grave, lined with the glistening laurel-leaves of victory, stood old and young, rich and poor, men and women, and even little children. There were those who had come because he was the Doctor's son; there were those who had been with him on many a gay excursion; there were those who had experienced his tenderness and loving-kindness. Old man Johnson, from over the river, who had walked eight painful miles, laid the first shovelful of earth into the grave. Patton McRae helped to cover his life-long friend. The negroes from the farm sobbed audibly as they worked. A tramp came into the graveyard from the road and asked whose buryin' it was. They told him, and he swore softly, and begged to be allowed to help. John Wendell yielded his shovel to Hamp Pinner, and he to Colonel Huger.
Then the women came forward and covered the mound with boughs of green, and clusters of flowers, and sprays of bright leaves, and Sydney laid about the whole grave a garland of feathery aster and delicate fern. Through the quiet came a sweet, sonorous voice reading the words of the hymn,—
"Love's redeeming work is done,
Fought the fight, the victory won."
Out of the church-yard, side by side, with bowed heads, walked Bud Yarebrough and Friedrich von Rittenheim,—the man whose fragile honor had been preserved by Bob's act, and the man whose life he had given his own to save.
XXV