The junior constable, as he noted the dark hair, silvering and worn away at the temples, adjudged him to be somewhere between thirty and forty—­thirty-five was his exact age as he ascertained later.

Now, with the air of a fallen angel, he stood there in the cold, snow-dazzling moonlight; his face registering silent resignation as to whatever else might befall him.  The sergeant had stepped forward.  Redmond looked on, in dazed apprehension.  A solemn hush had fallen upon the strange scene, and stranger trio.  Their figures flung weird, fantastic shadows across the diamond-sparkling snow-crust.  George glanced at Slavin, and that individual’s demeanor amazed him still further.  The big man’s face was transformed.  There seemed something very terrible just then in the pathetic working of his rugged features, as if he were striving to allay some powerful inward emotion.  Then huskily, but not unkindly—­as perchance the father may have spoken to the prodigal son—­came his soft brogue: 

“Get yu tu bed, Yorkey! get yu tu bed, man! . . . an’ thry me no more! . . . .”

Mutely, like a child, Yorke obeyed the order.  Glancing at Redmond he turned and walked unsteadily into the detachment.

Perturbed and utterly mystified at the sordid drama he had witnessed, its amazing combination of brutality and pathos, George remained rooted to the spot as one in a dream.  Instinctively though, he felt that this was not the first time of its enactment.  Mechanically he watched the door close; then sounding far off and indistinct, Slavin’s hoarse whisper in his ear brought him down to Mother Earth again with a vengeance: 

“Did ye mark him stoop an’ ‘plant’ th’ ‘hootch?’”

George nodded.  “I wasn’t quite wise to what he was at,” he answered.

“Let us go get ut!” said Sergeant Slavin grimly, marching to the spot, “I will not have dhrink brought into th’ detachment! . . . ’tis against ordhers.”

He bent down, straightened up, and turning to Redmond who had joined him exhibited a bottle.  He held it up to the light of the moon.  It appeared to be about half empty.  Extracting the cork, he smelt.

“’Tis whiskey,” he murmured simply—­much as Mr. Pickwick said:  “It is punch.”  He made casual examination of the green and gold label.  “‘Burke’s Oirish,’ begob! . . . eyah! a brave ould uniform but”—­he turned a moist eye on his subordinate—­“a desp’ritly wounded souldier that wears ut—­betther out av pain.  ‘Tis an’ ould sayin’:  ’Whin ye meet th’ divil du not turn tail but take um by th’ harns.’ . . .  Bhoy!  I thrust the honest face av yeh—­I have tuk tu ye since th’ handy lad ye showt yersilf with that team mix-up th’ morn.”

Redmond, mollified, grinned shiveringly.  “I don’t mind a snort, Sergeant,” he said, “it’s d——­d cold out here.  Beer’s more in my line though.  Salue!”

He took a swallow or two; the bottle changed hands.