barytone in rendition of that hymn of Christian faith--

"Nearer, my God, to Thee!
Nearer to Thee!
E'en though it be a cross
That raiseth me,
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee!
Nearer to Thee."


Glazed and wearied eyes glanced cautiously toward the singer around the
edges of protecting rocks; fingers loosened their grasp upon the rifle
barrels; smoke-begrimed cheeks became moist; while lips, a moment
before profaned by oaths, grew silent and trembling. Out in front a
revengeful brave sent his bullet swirling just above the singer's head,
the sharp fragments of rock dislodged falling in a shower upon his
upturned face; but the fearless rascal sang serenely on to the end,
without a quaver.

"Mistake it for a death song likely," he remarked dryly, while the last
clear, lingering note, reechoed by the cliff, died reluctantly away in
softened cadence. "Beautiful old song, sergeant, and I trust hearing
it again has done you good. Sang it once in a church way back in New
England. But what is the trouble? Did you call me for some special
reason?"

"Yes," came the almost gruff response; for Wyman, the fever stealing
back upon him, felt half ashamed of his unshed tears. "That is,
provided you retain sufficient sense to listen. Old Gillis was shot