We moved on, through such a scene as I have seldom beheld. The village
had donned its best: women in cap and gown were hurrying hither and
thither, some laughing and some weeping; grown men embraced each other;
children of all colors flung themselves against Terence's
legs,--dark-haired Creoles, little negroes with woolly pates, and naked
Indian lads with bow and arrow. Terence dashed at them now and then, and
they fled screaming into dooryards to come out again and mimic him when
he had passed, while mothers and fathers and grandfathers smiled at the
good nature in his Irish face. Presently he looked down at me comically.

"Why wuddent ye be doin' the like, Davy?" he asked. "Amusha! 'tis mesilf
that wants to run and hop and skip wid the childher. Ye put me in mind
of a wizened old man that sat all day makin' shoes in Killarney,--all
savin' the fringe he had on his chin."

"A soldier must be dignified," I answered.

"The saints bar that wurrd from hiven," said Terence, trying to pronounce
it. "Come, we'll go to mass, or me mother will be visitin' me this
night."

We crossed the square and went into the darkened church, where the
candles were burning. It was the first church I had ever entered, and I
heard with awe the voice of the priest and the fervent responses, but I
understood not a word of what was said. Afterwards Father Gibault
mounted to the pulpit and stood for a moment with his hand raised above
his flock, and then began to speak. What he told them I have learned
since. And this I know, that when they came out again into the sunlit
square they were Americans. It matters not when they took the oath.