Chapter XXIV: "Fought the Fight"

Bob lay white and still upon his bed, breathing painfully. Two of Pink's bullets had torn their way through his lungs, and the third had splintered his collar-bone. A surgeon had come out from Asheville, and, after examining the wounds, had sent for help. When the second physician arrived, they had probed and prodded the inert body, while Dr. Morgan, with an ever-growing fear clutching at his heart, administered the chloroform with a steady hand. Outside the door Mrs. Morgan had knelt against the wall, tearless, and without a word of prayer.

Now it was over, and there was no hope, only waiting for the end,--the waiting that saps courage from the heart of the onlooker, and makes endurance seem a thing impossible; the torture of seeing suffering that is not to be relieved; suffering that seems all unnecessary, since death is to be the issue after all.

Bob had asked for Sydney as soon as he came out of the chloroform, and she had responded at once.

"You won't leave me, dear?" he had questioned, when he opened his eyes from the drowsiness that the opiate forced upon him, and saw her sitting beside him.

"No, Bob; I'll stay as long as you want me."

He had smiled feebly at her.

"It won't be very long."

A glimmer in his eyes showed that he understood the possible impertinent interpretation of his speech.

"You won't mind letting me hold your hand, Sydney, will you?" he had said, in his hoarse, weak voice. "It's one of the perquisites of dying. Tuck your fingers in there, dear. Those doctors have strapped me up so I can't move my arm."

So she sat with her hand in his, and her eyes looking out across the meadows to Buck Mountain, while Bob dozed and woke and dozed again, always smiling happily at her when he found her still beside him, and pressing her fingers in his weak grasp.

As the sun sank towards the west he roused from his stupefied slumber, and spoke with growing clearness.

"It's mighty good of you to stay here, Sydney. I'm selfish to ask you, but I haven't seen you much lately, I've been so busy with the crops."

"You've never failed me, Bob dear. It's my turn now."

"It's just because I'm weak, I suppose, but I want a little flattery. Don't you think I've done pretty well about--drinking?"

"You've been wonderful, Bob. I honor and respect you more than I can say. You feel that, don't you?"

"Thank you, dear. You know I did it for you? Oh, I told her all about it," as Sydney glanced towards the corner where Mrs. Morgan, worn out with grief, was sleeping behind a screen. "I've been a little more hopeful about you lately, since--well----"

He paused, not liking to finish his sentence "since the Baroness came," for it suggested implications too delicate for utterance.

"But I always knew, really, that you couldn't care for me in that way. It was a temporary deceit, the way you can make yourself believe for a few minutes that you haven't a toothache, and then it jumps on you again."

"Dear old Bob."

Sydney bent forward and kissed him. Over his face spread a radiance of unexpected happiness.

"Oh, Sydney, you darling! I say, Sydney, if you wouldn't think that I'm taking advantage of my condition--would you mind--_would_ you do that again?"

She kissed him again, gladly, willingly, and he sank happily to sleep. When he woke once more he asked for von Rittenheim.

"He's down-stairs. He's been waiting all day hoping you'd want to see him."

Sydney summoned Friedrich. He uttered an exclamation of sorrow as he saw the big black eyes looking from their hollows, and the white face of the man so suddenly brought to this pass from the full tide of strength.

"For-r my sake!" he groaned. "How with all my soul I wish it were I!"

He took Bob's other hand--Sydney had resumed her old position--and tried to command his voice. It was Bob who spoke first:

"What about Pressley?"

Von Rittenheim looked questioningly at Sydney, who nodded.

"He's dead, Bob."

A ray from the setting sun found its way to the bed and lighted up the dying man's face.

"Kind of sudden for him, too," he mused. "Did he live any time at all?"

"No. Your bullet went through his heart. He must have died instantly."

"It's a mighty serious thing to do, to kill a man. I never realized before how serious it was. But I'm not sorry."

"You saved my life, Bob. I can't talk about it. Only, I'd give it gladly, gladly, to keep you, old man."

He bent his head with a sob.

"Never mind that, Baron. I suspect Yarebrough'll be all the better for not having Pink to lead him into mischief."

"It has saved him from a heavy punishment. They found in Pr-ressley's pocket a letter offering to turn State's evidence."

"That would have sent Bud to jail and freed himself, wouldn't it?" asked Sydney.

"Yes. He must have been afraid of betrayal."

"No," cried the girl; "I'm sure he planned the whole thing to spite Melissa. I heard him threatening her one day. He said he'd make her sorry she ever married Bud."

"I think you're right, Sydney," said Bob. "He was working Bud all summer, I'm confident, with the purpose of betraying him at the end."

He sank a little into the pillow, and Sydney gave von Rittenheim a glance of dismissal.

"You're tired, dear," she said to Bob.

"A little. I think I'll take a nap. Oh, Baron, I almost forgot. I was in Asheville a few days ago,--Monday, Tuesday,--I don't know when," he went on, weakly, "and I met a man who said he thought he knew you. He's at the hotel,--a German."

"Did he tell you his name?"

"I can't remember. Something long. He said if you were Friedrich von Rittenheim from the Black Forest that he knew you well, and would you look him up? You will, won't you?"

"Yes, I will."

"If you don't, he'll think I've broken my promise."

"I will. He shall know that you told me. Good-by, Bob, good-by."

But Bob was asleep and did not answer.

It was with the ebbing of the night and the coming of the dawn that Bob's soul went out,--went out in stress and travail.

When the struggle was over, Sydney left the old doctor and his wife kneeling side by side at the edge of the bed, and crept down-stairs. Von Rittenheim was sitting before the fire, his head buried in his hands. He sprang to meet her as she entered.

"Is he----? Has he----?"

The girl nodded.

"Just now."

Suddenly she threw her arms over her head and broke into stifled sobs.

Friedrich was torn with distress. He drew her to the fire, and established her in a big chair, wrapping her warmly in a rug from the couch. Somewhere he found a glass of wine, and made her take it. Then he knelt beside her, rubbing the fingers that were cold and cramped from Bob's long clasp, and talking softly to her as to a child.

God alone knows the force he put upon himself not to take her in his arms and comfort her on his breast; not to pour into her ears the words that were burning his heart out. Drops of moisture stood on his forehead as he resisted the temptation that was the stronger because he felt that she returned his love, and that these forbidden words would be her greatest comfort. But Sydney was not insensible of their subtle, unspoken sympathy, and at last yielded to the solace of warmth and the consciousness of being cared for, and, exhausted, closed her eyes in sleep.

Friedrich stirred the fire and watched its light play on the face of the woman he loved, and gave himself up to wonder and longing and regret.

* * * * *

Unless it had been that of Dr. Morgan himself, no other death in all the country round could have touched so nearly so many hearts. Around the grave, lined with the glistening laurel-leaves of victory, stood old and young, rich and poor, men and women, and even little children. There were those who had come because he was the Doctor's son; there were those who had been with him on many a gay excursion; there were those who had experienced his tenderness and loving-kindness. Old man Johnson, from over the river, who had walked eight painful miles, laid the first shovelful of earth into the grave. Patton McRae helped to cover his life-long friend. The negroes from the farm sobbed audibly as they worked. A tramp came into the graveyard from the road and asked whose buryin' it was. They told him, and he swore softly, and begged to be allowed to help. John Wendell yielded his shovel to Hamp Pinner, and he to Colonel Huger.

Then the women came forward and covered the mound with boughs of green, and clusters of flowers, and sprays of bright leaves, and Sydney laid about the whole grave a garland of feathery aster and delicate fern. Through the quiet came a sweet, sonorous voice reading the words of the hymn,--

"Love's redeeming work is done,
Fought the fight, the victory won."

Out of the church-yard, side by side, with bowed heads, walked Bud Yarebrough and Friedrich von Rittenheim,--the man whose fragile honor had been preserved by Bob's act, and the man whose life he had given his own to save.