In the doorway of the inner room of the cabin she stood, and throwing one arm up against the frame of the door she buried her face in it. She did not cry or sob. Later, there would be plenty of time for that.
The Bishop, reading swiftly, saw that in an instant an irrevocable change had come over her. She had knelt a frightened, wondering, protesting child. A woman, grown, with knowledge of death and its infinite certainty, of life and its infinite chance, had risen from her knees.
As the Bishop leaned over him, Lansing spoke hurriedly:
“I never knew your name, Chaplain; or if I did I forgot it, and it don’t matter.
“I’m dying. I don’t need any doctor to tell me. I’ll be gone before he gets here.
“You remember that day at Fort Fisher, when Curtis’ men were cut to pieces in the second charge on the trenches. They left me there, because it was every man for himself.
“A ball in my shoulder and another in my leg. And you came drivin’ mad across the field on a big, crazy white horse and slid down beside me where I lay. You threw me across your saddle and walked that wild horse back into our lines.
“Do you remember? Dying men got up on their elbows and cheered you. I lay six weeks in fever, and I never saw you since. Do you remember?”
“I do, now,” said the Bishop. “Our troop came back to the Shenandoah, and I never knew what––”