and his paper, he was within
the accommodation assigned him. They must hie them back to the casino to
be at ease, and this would they do when he should reach the end of his
story--if indeed it had an end.

For with the prolixity of the eye-witness he was detailing the points of
the battle; what troops were engaged; how the flank was turned; how the
reserve was delayed; how the guns were planted; how the cavalry was
ordered to charge over impracticable ground, and how in consequence he
saw a squadron literally annihilated; how for hours after the fight was
over a sergeant of the Dovinger Rangers pervaded the field with the
guidon, calling on them by name to rally.

"And, gentlemen," he continued, turning in his chair, the fire kindling
in his eyes as it died in the bowl of his pipe, "not one man responded,
for none could rise from that horrid slaughter."

There was a moment of tense silence. Then, "Back and forth the guidon
flaunted, and the rain began to fall, and the night came on, and still
the dusk echoed the cry, 'Guide right! Dovinger's Rangers! Rally on the
guidon! Rally on the reserve!'"

The old chaplain stuck his pipe into his mouth and brought it aflare
again with two or three strong indrawing respirations.

"The surgeons said it would end in a case of dementia. I was sorry, for
I had seen much that day that hurt me, and more than all was this. For I
could picture that valiant young spirit going through life, spared by
God's mercy; and it seemed to me that when the enemy, in whatever guise,
should press him hard and defeat should bear him down he would have the
courage and the ardor and the moral strength to rally on the reserve. He
would rally on the guidon."

The old chaplain pulled strongly at his pipe, setting the blue wreaths
of smoke circling about his head. "I should know that young fellow again
wherever I might chance to see him."

"Did he collapse at last and verify the surgeon's prophecy?" asked the
dealer.

"Well," drawled the chaplain, with a little flattered laugh, "I myself
took care of that. Many years ago I studied medicine, before I was
favored with a higher call. Neurology was my line. When the boy's horse
sank exhausted beneath him, and he fell into a sleep or stupor on the
carcass, I removed the object of the obsession. I slipped the
flag-staff, guidon and all, into a crevice of the rocks, where it will
remain till the end of our time, be sure." He laughed in relish of his
arbitra