“Well, what shall it be?” returned the gratified Gaspard.
“One of Sankey’s hymns,” said the sergeant, with the remotest semblance of a twinkle in his eye, as he took a small hymn-book from under his pillow and gave it to his friend.
Gaspard did not seem to relish the idea of singing hymns, but he had often heard the Blue Lights sing them, and could not plead ignorance of the tunes; besides, being a man of his word, he would not refuse to fulfil his promise.
“Sing Number 68, ‘Shall we gather at the river?’ I’m very fond of that hymn.”
In a sweet, soft, mellow voice, that charmed all who were within hearing, Gaspard began the hymn, and when he had finished there was heard more than one “Amen” and “Thank God” from the neighbouring beds.
“Yes, comrades, we shall gather there,” said the sergeant, after a brief pause, “for the same Almighty Saviour who saved me died for you as well. I ain’t used to wettin’ my cheeks, as you know, lads, but I s’pose my wound has weakened me a bit! Now Sutherland, the favour I have to ask of—”
“If ye’re thinkin’ o’ askin’ me to pray,” broke in the alarmed Scotsman, “ye may save your breath. When I promised, I said, ‘if I can.’ Noo, I can not pray, an’ it’s nae use askin’ me to try. Whatever I may come to in this warld, I’ll no be a heepycrit for ony leevin’ man.”
“Quite right, Sutherland—quite right. I had no intention of asking you to pray,” replied Hardy, with a faint smile. “What I want you to do is to draw out my will for me.”
“Oh! I’m quite willin’ to do that,” returned the relieved Scot.
“You see,” continued the sergeant, “one never knows what may be the result of a bad wound in a climate like this, and if it pleases my Father in heaven to call me home, I should like the few trifles I possess to go in the right direction.”