"He wants to speak to you, sir," said the captain.
Rivers stepped to his side. "I did not tell my name. Tell my mother I was shot—not how—not why."
Rivers fell back. The captain let fall a handkerchief. Six rifles rang out, and Peter Lamb had gone to his account.
The regiment marched away. The music of the band rang clear through the frosty air. The captain said, "Where is the surgeon?" Tom McGregor appeared, and as he had to certify to the death bent down over the quivering body.
"My God! Mr. Rivers," he said in a low voice, looking up, "it is Peter
Lamb."
"Hush, Tom," whispered Rivers, "no one knows him except Josiah." They walked away together while Rivers told of Josiah's recognition of Lamb. "Keep silent about his name, Tom," and then went on to speak of the man's revengeful story about the Colonel, to Tom's horror. "I am sorry you told me," said the young surgeon.
"Yes, I was unwise—but—"
"Oh, let us drop it, Mr. Rivers. How is John? I have been three times to see him and he twice to see me, but always he was at the front, and as for me we have six thousand beds and too few surgeons, so that I could not often get away. Does he know of this man's fate?"
"No—and he had better not."
"I agree with you. Let us bury his name with him. So he shot our dear
Colonel—how strange, how horrible!"