got towards th’ ind av th’ thrail, poor chap! shoutin’ dhrill-ordhers an’ Injia naygur talk, an’ singin’ great songs an’ chips av poethry—­th’ half av which I misremimber—­excipt thim—­thim wurrds he said this night.  ‘Shaint Agnus Eve,’ he calls ut.  Over an’ over he kept repeathin’ thim as he helped me shtaggerin’ along. . .  ‘God!’ cries he, betune cursin’ me an’ th’ dogs an’ singin’ ’Shaint Agnus Eve’—­’Oh, help us this night! let us live, God! . . . oh, let us live!—­this poor bloody Oirishman an’ me! . . .’”

The sergeant’s head was thrown back now, gazing full at the evening star the moonbeams shining upon his upturned, powerful face.  Cold as was the night Redmond could see glistening beads of sweat on his forehead.  As one himself under the spell of the fear of death, the younger man silently watched that face—­fascinated.  It was calm now, with a great and kindly peace.  Slowly the gentle voice took up the tale anew: 

“We made ut, bhoy—­th’ Post—­or nigh tu ut . . . in th’ break av th’ dawn. . . .  For wan av th’ dogs yapped an’ they come out an’ found us in th’ snow. . . .  Yorkey, wid his arrums round th’ neck av me—­as if he wud shtill dhrag me on . . . . an’ cryin’ upon th’ mother that bore um. . . .  Tu men—­in damned bad shape—­tu shtiffs . . . . an’ but three dogs lift out av th’ six-team we’d shtarted wid. . . .  So—­now ye know; lad! . . .  Fwhat think ye? . . .”

What George thought was:  “Greater love hath no man than this.”  What he said was:  “He’s an Englishman, isn’t he?”

Slavin nodded.  “Comes of a mighty good family tu, they say, but ’tis little he iwer cracks on himself ’bout thim.  Years back he hild a commission in some cavalry reg’mint in Injia, but he got broke—­over a woman, I fancy.  He’s knocked about th’ wurrld quite a piece since thin.  Eyah! he talks av some quare parts he’s been in.  Fwhat doin’?  Lord knows.  Been up an’ down the ladder some in this outfit—­sarjint one week—­full buck private next.  Yen know th’ way these ginthlemin-rankers run amuck?”

“How does he get away with it every time?” queried Redmond.  “Hasn’t any civilian ever reported him to the old man?”

“Yes! wance—­an’ ‘Father,’ th’ ould rapparee! he went for me baldheaded for not reporthin’ ut tu.”

With a sort of miserable heartiness Slavin cursed awhile at the recollection.  “Toime an’ again,” he resumed, “have I taken my hands tu um—­pleaded wid um, an’ shielded um in many a dhirty scrape, an’ ivry toime sez he, wid his ginthlemin’s shmile:  ‘Burke! will ye thry an’ overlook it, ould man?’ . . .  Eyah! he’s mighty quare.  For some rayson he seems tu hate th’ idea av a third man bein’ here, tho’ th’ man’ wud die for me.  Divil a man can I kape here, anyway.  In fwhat fashion he puts th’ wind up ’him, I do not know; they will not talk, out av pure kindness av heart an’ rispict for meself, I guess.  But—­a few days here, an’ bingo!—­they apply for thransfer.  Now ye know ivrythin’, bhoy—­fwhat I am up against, an’ fwhy I will not ‘can’ Yorkey.  Ye’ve a face that begets thrust—­do not bethray ut, but thry an’ hilp me.  Bear wid Yorke as best ye can—­divilmint an’ all—­for my sake, will yeh?”