soldiers over and under the low trees like rays from an open furnace.

It smote Reynolds as he sat by the creek under the guns before San Juan,
idly watching water bubble into three canteens, and it opened his lips
for an oath that he was too lazy to speak; it smote Abe Long cooking
coffee on the bank some ten yards away, and made him raise from the fire
and draw first one long forearm and then the other across his
heat-wrinkled brow; but, unheeded, it smote Crittenden--who stood near,
leaning against a palm-tree--full in his uplifted face. Perhaps that was
the last sunrise on earth for him. He was watching it in Cuba, but his
spirit was hovering around home. He could feel the air from the woods in
front of Canewood; could hear the darkies going to work and Aunt Keziah
singing in the kitchen. He could see his mother's shutter open, could
see her a moment later, smiling at him from her door. And Judith--where
was she, and what was she doing? Could she be thinking of him? The sound
of his own name coming down through the hot air made him start, and,
looking up toward the Rough Riders, who were gathered about a little
stuccoed farm-house just behind the guns on the hill, he saw Blackford
waving at him. At the same moment hoofs beat the dirt-road behind
him--familiar hoof-beats--and he turned to see Basil and Raincrow--for
Crittenden's Colonel was sick with fever and Basil had Raincrow now--on
their way with a message to Chaffee at Caney. Crittenden saluted
gravely, as did Basil, though the boy turned in his saddle, and with an
affectionate smile waved back at him.

Crittenden's lips moved.

"God bless him."

* * * * *