Lucile [87]
that the past was redeem'd, And forgiven. He bitterly went on to speak Of the boy's baffled love; in which fate seem'd to break Unawares on his dreams with retributive pain, And the ghosts of the past rose to scourge back again The hopes of the future. To sue for consent Pride forbade: and the hope his old foe might relent Experience rejected . . . "My life for the boy's!" (He exclaim'd); "for I die with my son, if he dies! Lucile! Heaven bless you for all you have done! Save him, save him, Lucile! save my son! save my son!"
XIX.
"Ay!" murmur'd the Soeur Seraphine . . . "heart to heart! THERE, at least, I have fail'd not! Fulfill'd is my part? Accomplish'd my mission? One act crowns the whole. Do I linger? Nay, be it so, then! . . . Soul to soul!" She knelt down, and pray'd. Still the boy slumber'd on, Dawn broke. The pale nun from the bedside was gone.
XX.
Meanwhile, 'mid his aides-de-camp, busily bent O'er the daily reports, in his well-order'd tent There sits a French General--bronzed by the sun And sear'd by the sands of Algeria. One Who forth from the wars of the wild Kabylee Had strangely and rapidly risen to be The idol, the darling, the dream and the star Of the younger French chivalry: daring in war, And wary in council. He enter'd, indeed, Late in life (and discarding his Bourbonite creed) The Army of France: and had risen, in part From a singular aptitude proved for the art Of that wild desert warfare of ambush, surprise, And stratagem, which to the French camp supplies Its subtlest intelligence; partly from chance; Partly, too, from a name and position which France Was proud to put forward; but mainly, in fact, From the prudence to plan, and the daring to act, In frequent emergencies startlingly shown, To the rank which he now held,--intrepidly won With many a wound, trench'd in many a scar, From fierce Milianah and Sidi-Sakhdar.
XXI.
All within, and without, that warm tent seems to bear Smiling token of provident order and care. All about, a well-fed, well-clad soldiery stands In groups round the music of mirth-breathing bands. In and out of the tent, all day long, to and fro, The messengers come and the messengers go, Upon missions of mercy, or errands of toil: To report how the sapper contends with the soil In the terrible trench, how the sick man is faring In the hospital tent: and, combining, comparing, Constructing, within moves the brain of one man, Moving all. He is bending his brow o'er some plan For the hospital service, wise, skilful, humane. The officer standing behind him is fain To refer to the angel solicitous cares Of the Sisters of Charity: one he declares To be known through the camp as a seraph of grace; He has seen, all have seen her indeed, in each place Where suffering is seen, silent, active--the Soeur . . . Soeur . . . how do they call her? "Ay, truly, of her I have heard much," the General, musing, replies; "And we owe her already (unless rumor lies) The lives of not few of our bravest. You mean Ah, how do they call her? . . . the Soeur--Seraphine (Is it not so?). I rarely forget names once heard."
"Yes; the Soeur Seraphine. Her I meant." "On my word, I have much wish'd to see her. I fancy I trace, In some facts traced to her, something more than the grace Of an angel; I mean an acute human mind, Ingenious, constructive, intelligent. Find, And if possible, let her come to me. We shall, I think, aid each other." "Oui, mon General: I believe she has lately obtained the permission To tend some sick man in the Second Division Of our Ally; they say a relation." "Ay, so? A relation?" "'Tis said so." "The name do you know?" Non, mon General." While they spoke yet, there went A murmur and stir round the door of the tent. "A Sister of Charity craves, in a case Of urgent and serious importance, the grace Of brief private speech with the
XIX.
"Ay!" murmur'd the Soeur Seraphine . . . "heart to heart! THERE, at least, I have fail'd not! Fulfill'd is my part? Accomplish'd my mission? One act crowns the whole. Do I linger? Nay, be it so, then! . . . Soul to soul!" She knelt down, and pray'd. Still the boy slumber'd on, Dawn broke. The pale nun from the bedside was gone.
XX.
Meanwhile, 'mid his aides-de-camp, busily bent O'er the daily reports, in his well-order'd tent There sits a French General--bronzed by the sun And sear'd by the sands of Algeria. One Who forth from the wars of the wild Kabylee Had strangely and rapidly risen to be The idol, the darling, the dream and the star Of the younger French chivalry: daring in war, And wary in council. He enter'd, indeed, Late in life (and discarding his Bourbonite creed) The Army of France: and had risen, in part From a singular aptitude proved for the art Of that wild desert warfare of ambush, surprise, And stratagem, which to the French camp supplies Its subtlest intelligence; partly from chance; Partly, too, from a name and position which France Was proud to put forward; but mainly, in fact, From the prudence to plan, and the daring to act, In frequent emergencies startlingly shown, To the rank which he now held,--intrepidly won With many a wound, trench'd in many a scar, From fierce Milianah and Sidi-Sakhdar.
XXI.
All within, and without, that warm tent seems to bear Smiling token of provident order and care. All about, a well-fed, well-clad soldiery stands In groups round the music of mirth-breathing bands. In and out of the tent, all day long, to and fro, The messengers come and the messengers go, Upon missions of mercy, or errands of toil: To report how the sapper contends with the soil In the terrible trench, how the sick man is faring In the hospital tent: and, combining, comparing, Constructing, within moves the brain of one man, Moving all. He is bending his brow o'er some plan For the hospital service, wise, skilful, humane. The officer standing behind him is fain To refer to the angel solicitous cares Of the Sisters of Charity: one he declares To be known through the camp as a seraph of grace; He has seen, all have seen her indeed, in each place Where suffering is seen, silent, active--the Soeur . . . Soeur . . . how do they call her? "Ay, truly, of her I have heard much," the General, musing, replies; "And we owe her already (unless rumor lies) The lives of not few of our bravest. You mean Ah, how do they call her? . . . the Soeur--Seraphine (Is it not so?). I rarely forget names once heard."
"Yes; the Soeur Seraphine. Her I meant." "On my word, I have much wish'd to see her. I fancy I trace, In some facts traced to her, something more than the grace Of an angel; I mean an acute human mind, Ingenious, constructive, intelligent. Find, And if possible, let her come to me. We shall, I think, aid each other." "Oui, mon General: I believe she has lately obtained the permission To tend some sick man in the Second Division Of our Ally; they say a relation." "Ay, so? A relation?" "'Tis said so." "The name do you know?" Non, mon General." While they spoke yet, there went A murmur and stir round the door of the tent. "A Sister of Charity craves, in a case Of urgent and serious importance, the grace Of brief private speech with the