“Oh, come on, Dunbar,” said the O. C. in a voice whose gruffness might signify almost any emotion, but with a touch upon his shoulder that Barry knew meant comradeship. “Say good-bye to the boys here, and get out.”
They had just finished the plan for the campaign of the next night, and every man in that little company knew that for him this might be his last “Good-bye” to the chaplain. It only added to the depth of their feeling that they knew that of all this Barry was unconscious. But, whether it was that unconsciously he had gathered something of the real significance of the situation, or whether it was that he himself had reached the limit of emotional control, as he passed from man to man, shaking hands in farewell, his lips refused to utter a single word, but in his eyes were unshed tears that spoke for him.
Major Bayne followed him to the door, and outside:
“Take my horse and Monroe with you, and good-bye, old man. All sorts of good luck. Remember that we all feel to-night that you are really one of us, and that we are better men because we have known you. Goodbye.”
Again Barry was conscious of that strange suggestion, almost of impending calamity.
“I hate to go, major,” he said. “I believe I'll wait.”
“Nonsense,” said the major impatiently. “Take your leave when you get your chance, and have a good time. You have earned it.”