“We want no money, soldier,” said Philomène. “We will do our best. Give me your name, that meanwhile we may pray for you and him, out of these many.”
“My name is Livesay, Sergeant, of Bull’s troop. That will mean nothing to you, however.”
“I dare say,” answered Philomène simply, “it will convey more to our Lord God. I had a man once—who was killed—in the Artillery.”
Jean and Pauline stared at the man. Tears, as he stood by the grave, had carved channels of white down his powder-stained cheeks.
“I do not believe,” he said, “in praying for the dead. But I am glad, somehow, there are folks who do. Will you? His name was Ramsey; and the Duke, who has won this battle, broke his heart, curse him!”
“How did he die, sir?” asked Philomène simply.
“He was killed some while ago and far from here,” answered the sergeant. “Of a broken heart, Mademoiselle.”
“It is a sad thing,” sighed Philomène, “to live for the Artillery.”
The sergeant seemed to wish to say more, but turned to shake hands with her. He patted the children lightly on the head, then strode down the slope. A last shaft of sunset cast his long shadow over the heaps of slain.
With a sob Philomène pulled herself together.