He folded the paper and rose, holding it out to Callandar.
“I am contented,” said he; “go now, Callandar. You look worn out. I believe this last night is trying you more than it tries me.”
* * * * *
It was some little time after daybreak that Callandar stood again at the door of the tent under the kindling skies. Archie was waiting for him and he came out. The eyes of the sentries never left them as they went away together, followed by the small armed guard that was at Callandar’s heels.
The two walked a little apart, and when they reached the outskirts of the camp they came to a field, an insignificant rough enclosure, in which half a dozen soldiers were gathered, waiting. At the sight of Callandar the sergeant who was in charge of them began to form them in a line some paces from the wall.
Callandar and Flemington stopped. The light had grown clear, and the smoke that was beginning to rise from the town thickened the air over the roofs that could be seen from where they stood. The daily needs and the daily avocations were beginning again for those below the hill, while they were ceasing for ever for him who stood above in the cool morning. In a few minutes the sun would get up; already there was a sign of his coming in the eastward sky.
The two men turned to each other; they had nothing more to say. They had settled every detail of this last act of their short companionship, so that there should be no hesitation, no mistake, nothing to be a lengthening of agony for one, nor an evil memory for the other.
Archie held out his hand.
“When I look at you,” he said.
“Yes,” said Callandar.