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Updated: May 26, 2025
Rough men pass away, hard men "go West" with a smile of peace upon their pain-tortured lips if the padre can get to them in time for the parting word, the cheerful, colloquial "best o' luck." Does the padre come to us and sanctimoniously pronounce our eternal doom should he hear us swear?
I shot him ... I wish hit hed er been myself," returned the old man, between breaths which came in deep, body-shaking gasps. Slowly the doctor bent, laid his chum back on the ground, and knelt beside him until the fast glazing eyes which never wavered from his closed forever, and the pain-tortured little body lay still.
The good-byes at the station in Richmond; her mother's face, pathetic and drawn against the folds of her crape veil; Cousin Jimmy, crimson and jovial; Florrie's violent waving as the train moved away; Miss Jemima, with her smiling, pain-tortured eyes, flinging a handful of rice; the last glimpse of them; the slowly vanishing streets, where the few pedestrians stopped to look after the cars; the park where she had played as a child; the brilliant flower-beds filled with an autumnal bloom of scarlet cannas; the white-aproned negro nurses and the gaily decorated perambulators; the clustering church spires against a sky of pure azure; the negro hovels, with frost-blighted sunflowers dropping brown seeds over the paling fences; the rosy haze of it all; and her heart saying over and over, "There is nothing but love in the world!
The young man submitted without flinching to the operation, like a good, brave chap of the Valencian huerta. He had four days' rest in all, and even at that, his fondness for work caused him new sufferings and he aided his father with pain-tortured arm. Saturdays, when he came to his sweetheart's farmhouse, she always asked after his health. "How's the bite getting along?"
She sung quadriales, to be sure, Beranger's songs and odes of the camp; for she knew of no hymn but the "Marseillaise," and her chants were all chants like the "Laus Veneris." But the voice that gave them was pure as the voice of a thrush in the spring, and the cadence of its music was so silvery sweet that it soothed like a spell all the fever-racked brains, all the pain-tortured spirits.
Then after a pause in which the smile and the gleam flickered over his pain-tortured face, he added in a more determined voice: "I am glad I went, though the doctor was furious. He says it was the worst thing I could have done and thought I ought to have had sense enough to But don't let's talk any more about it, Miss Felicia. It was so good of you to come. Mr. Grayson has just left.
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