As the melancholy procession formed up for its march to the graveyard, the smallest and junior men would take front place, the bigger and senior men behind them, non-commissioned officers would follow, and subalterns and captain last of all.  In stepping off from the halt, all would step off with the right foot instead of with the left.  Apparently the object was to reverse ordinary procedure to the uttermost—­which would but be in keeping with the great reversal of showing honour to such an unhonoured thing as a private soldier—­one of the despised and rejected band that enable the respectable, wealthy, and smug to remain so; one of the “licentious soldiery” that have made, and that keep, the Empire of which the respectable wealthy and smug are so proud.

At the “slow march,” and in perfect silence until beyond hearing by the inmates of the Hospital, the cortege would proceed.  Anon the band would call heaven and earth to mourn with the sonorous dreadful strains of the Dead March; whereafter the ordinary “quick march” would bring the funeral party to the cemetery, in sight of which the “slow march” would be resumed, and the Chaplain, surpliced, book-bearing, come forth to put himself at its head, leading the way to the grave-side where, with uncovered heads, the mourners would listen to the impressive words with feelings varying as their education, religion, temperament, and—­digestion—­impelled.

At the close of the service, the firing-party in their places, six on either side of the grave, would fire three volleys into the air, while the band breathed a solemn dirge.

And—­perhaps most impressively tragic touch of all—­the party would march briskly off to the strains of the liveliest air in the whole repertoire of the band.

Why should John Humphreyville Priddell—­doubtless scion of the great Norman houses of Humphreyville and Paradelle, who shared much of Dorsetshire between them from Domesday Book to Stuart downfall—­have been born in a tiny village of the Vale of Froom in “Dorset Dear,” to die of cholera in vile Motipur?  Was some maid, in barton, byre, or dairy, thinking of him but now—­with an ill-writ letter in her bosom, a letter beginning with “I now take up my pen to right you these few lines hopping they find you the same which they now leave me at present” according to right tradition and proper custom, and continuing to speak of homesick longings, dreams of furlough, promotion, marrying “on the strength,” and retirement to green fair Dorset Dear on a Sergeant-Major’s pension?

What was the meaning of it all?  Was it pure chance and accident—­or had a Living, Scheming, Purposeful Deity a great wise object in this that John Humphreyville Priddell should have been born and bred and nurtured in the Vale of Froom to be struck from lusty life to a death of agony in a few hours at Motipur in the cruel accursed blighted land of Ind?

Well, well!—­high time to rap again upon the door, the last door, of John Humphreyville Priddell, Trooper, ex-dairyhand, decaying carrion,—­and scare from his carcass such over-early visitants as anticipated....