"Jim's dead," he repeated vacantly. "He only arrived here
yesterday--transferred from his militia to McDunn's battery. And
now he's dead. Some one had better write to Camilla. I'm afraid
to. . . . A shell hit him last night--oh--he's all torn to
pieces--and Major Lent doesn't know it, either. . . . Father let
me come; we're ordered across the river; good-bye, mother--" He
rose and put his arms around her.
"You'll write to Camilla, won't you?" he said. "Tell her I love
her. I didn't know it until just a few minutes ago. But I do,
mother. I'd like to marry her. Tell her not to cry too much.
Jimmy was playing cards, they say, and a big shell fell inside the
redoubt. Philip--I think you knew Harry Sayre? Transferred from
the 7th to the Zouaves as lieutenant in the 5th company?"
"Yes. Was he killed?"
"Oh, Lord, yes; everybody in the shebang except Arthur Wye was all
torn to pieces. Tommy Atherton, too; you knew him, of course--5th
Zouaves. He happened in--just visiting Arthur Wye. They were all
playing cards in a half finished bomb-proof. . . . Mother, you
_will_ write to Camilla, won't you, dear? Good-bye--good-bye,
Phil--and Miss Lynden!" He caught his mother in his arms for a
last hug, wrenched himself free, and ran back across the hall,
bayonet and canteen clanking.
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