"Part with it? Oh, not for the world beside!"
"Neither would I--with mine." The soldier folded his hands in supplication. "Neither would I--though mine, O Lord--is only the--old-fashioned sort--for whose beliefs our fathers--used to kill one another; God have mercy--on them--and us."
There was a great stillness. Against the bedside Charlotte had sunk to her knees, and under the broad brim of her Leghorn hat leaned her brow upon her folded hands. Thus, presently, she spoke again.
"I know, Captain," she said, "that we can't have longings, strivings, or hopes, without beliefs; beliefs are what they live on. I believe in being strong and sweet and true for the pure sake of being so; and yet more for the world's sake; and as much more again for God's sake as God is greater than his works. I believe in beauty and in joy. I believe they are the goal of all goodness and of all God's work and wish. As to resurrection, punishment, and reward, I can't see what my noblest choice has to do with them; they seem to me to be God's part of the matter; mine is to love perfect beauty and perfect joy, both in and infinitely beyond myself, with the desiring love with which I rejoice to believe God loves them, and to pity the lack of them with the loving pity with which God pities it. And above all I believe that no beauty and no joy can be perfect apart from a love that loves the whole world's joy better than any separate joy of any separate soul."
"Thank you," was murmured from the pillow. Then, as Charlotte once more wiped the damp brow, the captive said, with much labor, "After that--war seems--an awful thing. I suppose it isn't half so much a crime--as it is a--penalty--for the crimes that bring it on. But anyhow--you know--being--" The bugle rang out the reveillé.
"Being a soldier," said Charlotte, "you want to die like one?"
"Yes, oh, yes!--the best I can. I'd like to sit half up--and hold my sword--if there's--no objection. I've loved it so! It would almost be like holding--the hand that's far away. Of course, it isn't really necessary, but--it would be more like--dying--for my country."
He would not have it in the scabbard, and when I laid it naked in his hand he kissed the hilt. Charlotte sent Gholson for Ned Ferry. Glancing from the window, I noticed that for some better convenience our scouts had left the grove, and the prisoners had been marched in and huddled close to the veranda-steps, under their heavy marching-guard of Louisianians. One of the blue-coats called up to me softly: "Dying--really?" He turned to his fellows--"Boys, Captain's dying."