Then Marched the Brave | Page 2

evening birds made tender the quiet scene. Suddenly hurried, yet
stealthy, steps startled them. Was it friend or foe?
"'Tis from a secret path, mother," whispered Andy, catching his crutch.
He knew the way the king's men came and went, and he knew the paths
hidden to all but those who dwelt among them. His trained ear was
never deceived.
"'Tis a neighbor," he murmured; "he comes down the stream bed."
Sure enough, a moment later Parson White's wife ran in. Her face was
haggard, and her hands outstretched imploringly. With keen
appreciation of what might be coming, Janie McNeal put her in a chair,
and stood guard over her like a gaunt sentinel.
"To bed, Andy, child," she commanded; "'tis late and you are pale. To
bed!"
Andy took the crutch, and, without a word, limped to the tiny room in
the loft above. Boy-like, he was consumed with curiosity. He knew that
the speakers, unless they whispered, could be overheard, so he lay
down upon his hard bed and listened. And poor Margaret White did not
whisper. Once alone with her friend, she poured out her agony and

horror.
"My Sam," she moaned, "he is dead!"
Janie and the listener above started. For three years Sam White, the
erring son of the good parson, had been a wanderer from his father's
home. How, then, had he died, and where? The news was startling,
indeed.
"Margaret, tell me all!" The firm voice calmed the grief-stricken
mother.
"He was coming home to get our blessing. He heard his country's call,
when his ears were deaf to all others, and it aroused his better nature.
He would not join the ranks until he had our blessing and forgiveness.
Poor lad! he was coming down the pass last night, not knowing that it
was sentineled by the enemy. He did not answer to the command to halt,
and they shot him! Shot him like a dog, giving him no time for
explanation or prayer. Oh! my boy! my boy!"
Never while he lived would Andy forget that tone of bitter agony.
"He's dead! My boy for whom I have watched and waited. Dead! ere he
could offer his brave young life on his country's altar. Oh! woe is me,
woe is me!"
For a moment there was silence, then Janie's voice rang out so that
Andy could hear every word.
"As God hears me, Margaret, I would gladly give my ain useless lad, if
by so doing, yours might be reclaimed from death. Your sorrow is one
for which there is no comfort. To have a son to give; to have him
snatched away before the country claimed him! Aye, woman, your load
is, indeed, a heavy one. To think of Andy alive, and your strong
man-child lying dead! The ways of God are beyond finding out. It
grieves me sore, Margaret, that it does. It seems a useless sacrifice, God
forgive me for saying it!"

The women were sobbing together. In the room above, Andy hid his
head under the pillow to shut out the sound. Never, in all his lonely life,
had he suffered so keenly. Love, pride, hope, went down before the
hard words. In that time of great deeds, when the brave were marching
on to victory or death, he, poor useless cripple, was a disgrace to the
mother whom he loved.
Where could he turn for comfort? He limped to the window, to cool his
fevered face. He leaned on the sill and looked up at the stars. They
seemed unfriendly now, and yet he and they had kept many a vigil, and
they had always seemed like comrades in the past. Poor Andy could not
pray; he needed the touch of human sympathy.
All at once he started. There was one, just one who would understand.
But how could he reach her? The women in the room below barred his
exit that way. A heavy vine clambered over the house, and its sturdy
branches swayed under Andy's window. No one would miss him, and
to climb down the vine was an easy task even for a lame boy.
Cautiously he began the descent, and in a few minutes was on the
ground. He had managed to carry his crutch under his arm, and now,
panting, but triumphant, he went quickly on. A new courage was rising
within him--a courage that often comes with despair and indifference to
consequences. No matter what happened, he would seek his only
friend.
He took to the stream bed. It was quite dry, and the bushes grew close.
No prowling Britisher would be likely to challenge him there. Ah! if
poor Sam White had been as wise. Andy's face grew paler as he
remembered. For a half-mile he pattered on, then the moon,