The stars were sharp in a sable sky, the river was a thin line of silver, the bills were blotted out.
Bronson was waiting by the big bridge. "He is singing down there," he said, "on the bank. Can you hear him?"
Leaning over the parapet, Derry listened. The quavering voice came up to him.
"_He has sounded forth the--trumpet--that shall never call--retreat-- He is sifting out the--hearts of men--before his judgment-- Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! Be jubilant, my feet--'_"
Poor old soldier, beating time to the triumphant tune, stumbling over the words--held pathetically to the memory of those days when he had marched in the glory of his youth, strength and spirit given to a mighty cause!
The pity of it wrung Derry's heart. "Couldn't you do anything with him, Bronson?"
"No, sir, I tried, but he sent me home. Told me I was discharged."
They might have laughed over that, but it was not the moment for laughter. In the last twenty years, the General had discharged Bronson more than once, always without the least idea of being taken at his word. To have lost this faithful servant would have broken his heart.
"I see. It won't do for you to show yourself just now. You'd better go home, and have his hot bath ready."
"Are you sure you can bring him, Mr. Derry?"
Bronson walked a few steps and came back. "It is freezing cold, sir, you'd better take the rug from the car."
Laden thus, Derry made his way down. His flashlight revealed the General, a humped-up figure on the bank of a little frozen stream.
"Go home, Derry," he said, as he recognized his son. "I want to sit by myself."
Derry attempted lightness. "You'll be a lump of ice in the morning, Dad. We'd have to chip you off in chunks."
"You go home with Bronson, son, He is up there. Go home--"
He had once commanded a brigade. There were moments when he was hard pushed that he remembered it.
Derry spread his rug on the icy ground. "Sit on this and wrap up your legs--you'll freeze out here."
His father did not move. "I am puf-feckly comfa'ble."
The General rarely got his syllables tangled. Things at times happened to his legs, but he usually controlled his tongue.
"I am puf-feckly comfa'ble--go home, Derry."
He had never been quite like this. There had been moods of rebellion, but usually he had yielded himself to his son's guidance.