The horse
slowed down to a walk. He entered the camp. The voice of Private Tom
Clary, who was posted as sentinel No. 1, challenged: "Halt!--who comes
there?"
"A friend--Corporal Frank Burton," was the answer.
"Blest be the saints! Corpril Frank, laddie, is it you--and aloive?"
said the sentinel, forgetting in his joy to continue the usual
formality of the challenge or to call the corporal of the guard.
Springing from my seat I walked towards the sentinel, and there, by
the light of the moon, I saw Frank, mounted upon Sancho, with Vic in
his arms. I reached up to take my dog, but the boy quickly exclaimed:
"Be careful, sir, be careful! She's badly hurt. Here's the letter she
brought. Henry is alive."
To attempt to relate all that now occurred would be impossible. In
some mysterious manner the news of Frank's arrival crept through the
camp, and half-dressed figures of officers and soldiers gathered about
the camp-fire, curious to listen to an account of the boy's adventure.
One little, blanketed figure ran out of the darkness, caught Vic's
face between her two palms, nestled her cheek against it, and with a
cheerful "good-night," disappeared as suddenly as she had come.
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