She ran her eye over the crowd and stepped forward a pace, as if to
speak; but lifted a finger and beckoned instead: and out of the people a
man fought his way to the foot of the scaffold. 'Twas the dashing
sergeant, that was here upon sick-leave. Sick he was, I believe.
His face above his shining regimentals was grey as a slate; for he had
committed perjury to save his skin, and on the face of the perjured no
sun will ever shine.

"Have you got it?" the doomed woman said, many hearing the words.

He tried to reach, but the scaffold was too high, so he tossed up what
was in his hand, and the woman caught it--a little screw of
tissue-paper.

"I must see that, please!" said the sheriff, laying a hand upon her arm.

"'Tis but a weddin'-ring, sir"--and she slipped it over her finger.
Then she kissed it once, under the beam, and, lookin' into the dragoon's
eyes, spoke very slow--

"_Husband, our child shall go wi' you; an' when I want you he shall
fetch you._"

--and with that turned to the sheriff, saying:

"I be ready, sir."


The sheriff wouldn't give father and mother leave for me to touch the
dead woman's hand; so they drove back that evening grumbling a good bit.