A Son of the Gods and A Horseman in the Sky | Page 7

metal of accoutrement and caparison
was softened and subdued by the shadow; the animal's skin had no
points of high light. A carbine, strikingly foreshortened, lay across the
pommel of the saddle, kept in place by the right hand grasping it at the
"grip"; the left hand, holding the bridle rein, was invisible. In silhouette
against the sky, the profile of the horse was cut with the sharpness of a
cameo; it looked across the heights of air to the confronting cliffs
beyond. The face of the rider, turned slightly away, showed only an
outline of temple and beard; he was looking downward to the bottom of
the valley. Magnified by its lift against the sky and by the soldier's
testifying sense of the formidableness of a near enemy, the group
appeared of heroic, almost colossal, size.
For an instant Druse had a strange, half-defined feeling that he had
slept to the end of the war and was looking upon a noble work of art
reared upon that commanding eminence to commemorate the deeds of
an heroic past of which he had been an inglorious part. The feeling was
dispelled by a slight movement of the group: the horse, without moving
its feet, had drawn its body slightly backward from the verge; the man
remained immobile as before. Broad awake and keenly alive to the
significance of the situation, Druse now brought the butt of his rifle
against his cheek by cautiously pushing the barrel forward through the
bushes, cocked the piece, and, glancing through the sights, covered a

vital spot of the horseman's breast. A touch upon the trigger and all
would have been well with Carter Druse. At that instant the horseman
turned his head and looked in the direction of his concealed foeman -
seemed to look into his very face, into his eyes, into his brave,
compassionate heart.
Is it, then, so terrible to kill an enemy in war - an enemy who has
surprised a secret vital to the safety of one's self and comrades - an
enemy more formidable for his knowledge than all his army for its
numbers? Carter Druse grew pale; he shook in every limb, turned faint,
and saw the statuesque group before him as black figures, rising, falling,
moving unsteadily in arcs of circles in a fiery sky. His hand fell away
from his weapon, his head slowly dropped until his face rested on the
leaves in which he lay. This courageous gentleman and hardy soldier
was near swooning from intensity of emotion.
It was not for long; in another moment his face was raised from earth,
his hands resumed their places on the rifle, his forefinger sought the
trigger; mind, heart and eyes were clear, conscience and reason sound.
He could not hope to capture that enemy; to alarm him would but send
him dashing to his camp with his fatal news. The duty of the soldier
was plain: the man must be shot dead from ambush - without warning,
without a moment's spiritual preparation, with never so much as an
unspoken prayer, he must be sent to his account. But no - there is a
hope; he may have discovered nothing; perhaps he is but admiring the
sublimity of the landscape. If permitted, he may turn and ride carelessly
away in the direction whence he came. Surely it will be possible to
judge at the instant of his withdrawing whether he knows. It may well
be that his fixity of attention - Druse turned his head and looked
through the deeps of air downward as from the surface of the bottom of
a translucent sea. He saw creeping across the green meadow a sinuous
line of figures of men and horses - some foolish commander was
permitting the soldiers of his escort to water their beasts in the open, in
plain view from a hundred summits!
Druse withdrew his eyes from the valley and fixed them again upon the
group of man and horse in the sky, and again it was through the sights

of his rifle. But this time his aim was at the horse. In his memory, as if
they were a divine mandate, rang the words of his father at their parting:
"Whatever may occur, do what you conceive to be your duty." He was
calm now. His teeth were firmly but not rigidly closed; his nerves were
as tranquil as a sleeping babe's - not a tremor affected any muscle of his
body; his breathing, until suspended in the act of taking aim, was
regular and slow. Duty had conquered; the spirit had said to the body:
"Peace, be still." He fired.
An officer of the Federal force, who, in a spirit of adventure or in quest
of knowledge, had left the hidden bivouac in the