Rivers stepped to his side.  “I did not tell my name.  Tell my mother I was shot—­not how—­not why.”

Rivers fell back.  The captain let fall a handkerchief.  Six rifles rang out, and Peter Lamb had gone to his account.

The regiment marched away.  The music of the band rang clear through the frosty air.  The captain said, “Where is the surgeon?” Tom McGregor appeared, and as he had to certify to the death bent down over the quivering body.

“My God!  Mr. Rivers,” he said in a low voice, looking up, “it is Peter Lamb.”

“Hush, Tom,” whispered Rivers, “no one knows him except Josiah.”  They walked away together while Rivers told of Josiah’s recognition of Lamb.  “Keep silent about his name, Tom,” and then went on to speak of the man’s revengeful story about the Colonel, to Tom’s horror.  “I am sorry you told me,” said the young surgeon.

“Yes, I was unwise—­but—­”

“Oh, let us drop it, Mr. Rivers.  How is John?  I have been three times to see him and he twice to see me, but always he was at the front, and as for me we have six thousand beds and too few surgeons, so that I could not often get away.  Does he know of this man’s fate?”

“No—­and he had better not.”

“I agree with you.  Let us bury his name with him.  So he shot our dear Colonel—­how strange, how horrible!”

“He believed that he did shoot him, and as the ball came from the lines of the 71st when the fight was practically at an end, it may be true.  He certainly meant to kill him.”

“What an entirely, hopelessly complete scoundrel!” said McGregor.

“Except,” said Rivers, “that he did not want his mother to know how he died.”

“Human wickedness is very incomplete,” said the surgeon.  “I wonder whether the devil is as perfectly wicked as we are taught to believe.  You think this fellow, my dear old schoolmaster, was not utterly bad.  Now about wanting his mother not to know—­I for my part—­”

“Don’t, Tom.  Leave him this rag of charity to cover a multitude of sins.  Now, I must leave you.  See John soon—­he is wasted by unending and dangerous work—­with malaria too, and what not; see him soon.  He is a splendid replica of the Colonel with a far better mind.  I wish he were at home.”

“And I that another fellow were at home.  Good-bye.”

McGregor called at John’s tent, but learned that at six he had gone on duty to the trenches.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Late on Christmas morning of this year 1864, Penhallow with no duty on his hands saw with satisfaction the peacemaking efforts of the winter weather.  A thin drizzle of cold rain froze as it fell on the snow; the engineers’ lines were quiet.  There was no infantry drill and the raw recruits had rest from the never satisfied sergeants, while unmanageable accumulations of gifts from distant homes were being distributed to well-pleased men.  Penhallow, lazily at ease, planned to spend Christmas day with Tom McGregor or Roland Blake.  The orders of a too energetic Colonel of his own Corps summarily disposed of his anticipated leisure.  The tired and disgusted Captain dismounted at evening, and limping gave his horse to Josiah.