Around a little fire on top of the hill, and in front of the Colonel’s tent, sat the Colonel, with kind Irish face, Irish eye, and Irish wit of tongue.  Near him the old Indian-fighter, Chaffee, with strong brow, deep eyes, long jaw, firm mouth, strong chin—­the long, lean face of a thirteenth century monk who was quick to doff cowl for helmet.  While they told war-stories, Crittenden sat in silence with the majors three, and Willings, the surgeon (whom he was to know better in Cuba), and listened.  Every now and then a horse would loom from the darkness, and a visiting officer would swing into the light, and everybody would say: 

“How!”

There is no humour in that monosyllable of good cheer throughout the United States Army, and with Indian-like solemnity they said it, tin cup in hand: 

“How!”

Once it was Lawton, tall, bronzed, commanding, taciturn—­but fluent when he did speak—­or Kent, or Sumner, or little Jerry Carter himself.  And once, a soldier stepped into the circle of firelight, his heels clicking sharply together; and Crittenden thought an uneasy movement ran around the group, and that the younger men looked furtively up as though to take their cue from the Colonel.  It was the soldier who had been an officer once.  The Colonel showed not a hint of consciousness, nor did the impassive soldier to anybody but Crittenden, and with him it may have been imagination that made him think that once, when the soldier let his eye flash quite around the group, he flushed slightly when he met Crittenden’s gaze.  Rivers shrugged his shoulders when Crittenden asked about him later.

“Black sheep, ... well-educated, brave, well-born most likely, came up from the ranks, ... won a commission as sergeant fighting Indians, but always in trouble—­gambling, fighting, and so forth.  Somebody in Washington got him a lieutenancy, and while the commission was on its way to him out West he got into a bar-room brawl.  He resigned then, and left the army.  He was gentleman enough to do that.  Now he’s back.  The type is common in the army, and they often come back.  I expect he has decency enough to want to get killed.  If he has, maybe he’ll come out a captain yet.”

By and by came “tattoo,” and finally far away a trumpet sounded “taps”; then another and another and another still.  At last, when all were through, “taps” rose once more out of the darkness to the left.  This last trumpeter had waited—­he knew his theme and knew his power.  The rest had simply given the command: 

“Lights out!”

Lights out of the soldier’s camp, they said.  Lights out of the soldier’s life, said this one, sadly; and out of Crittenden’s life just now something that once was dearer than life itself.

“Love, good-night.”