me' afther th' dogs, beggin' an' cursin' an' prayin' an' callin' me names
that ud fairly make th' dead relations av a man rise up out av their
graves. . . . Light-headed he got towards th' ind av th' thrail, poor
chap! shoutin' dhrill-ordhers an' Injia naygur talk, an' singin' great
songs an' chips av poethry--th' half av which I misremimber--excipt
thim--thim wurrds he said this night. 'Shaint Agnus Eve,' he calls ut.
Over an' over he kept repeathin' thim as he helped me shtaggerin'
along. . . 'God!' cries he, betune cursin' me an' th' dogs an' singin'
'Shaint Agnus Eve'--'Oh, help us this night! let us live, God! . . . oh,
let us live!--this poor bloody Oirishman an' me! . . .'"

The sergeant's head was thrown back now, gazing full at the evening star
the moonbeams shining upon his upturned, powerful face. Cold as was the
night Redmond could see glistening beads of sweat on his forehead. As
one himself under the spell of the fear of death, the younger man
silently watched that face--fascinated. It was calm now, with a great
and kindly peace. Slowly the gentle voice took up the tale anew:

"We made ut, bhoy--th' Post--or nigh tu ut . . . in th' break av th'
dawn. . . . For wan av th' dogs yapped an' they come out an' found us in
th' snow. . . . Yorkey, wid his arrums round th' neck av me--as if he
wud shtill dhrag me on . . . . an' cryin' upon th' mother that bore
um. . . . Tu men--in damned bad shape--tu shtiffs . . . . an' but three
dogs lift out av th' six-team we'd shtarted wid. . . . So--now ye know;
lad! . . . Fwhat think ye? . . ."

What George thought was: "Greater love hath no man than this." What he
said was: "He's an Englishman, isn't he?"

Slavin nodded. "Comes of a mighty good family tu, they say, but 'tis