Part 37 (1/2)

There were no longer any seats in the church. They had all been broken up for camp-fires--even the oaken pulpit had gone. The great empty s.p.a.ce had been roughly cleared of fallen masonry, which had been flung in heaps against the wall; on the stone floor filthy straw was thinly spread. On the straw lay row upon row of wounded men--very quiet for the most part; they had found that it did not pay to make noise enough to annoy the guards who smoked and played cards in a corner.

The long day--how long only the men on the straw knew--was drawing to a close. The sun sank behind the western window, which the guns had spared; and the stained gla.s.s turned to a glory of scarlet and gold and blue. The shafts of colour lay across the broken altar, whence everything had been stripped; they bathed the shattered walls in a beauty that was like a cloak over the nakedness of their ruin. Slowly they crept over the floor, as the sun sank lower, touching the straw with rosy fingers, falling gently on broken bodies and pain-drawn faces; and weary eyes looked gratefully up to the window where a figure of Christ with a child in His arms stood glorious in the light, and blessed them with the infinite pity of His smile.

A little c.o.c.kney lad with a dirty bandage round his head, who had tossed in pain all day on the chancel steps, turned to the window to greet the daily miracle of the sunset.

”Worf waiting for, all the day, that is!” he muttered. The restlessness left him, and his eyes closed, presently, in sleep.

Slowly the glory died away, and as it pa.s.sed a little figure in a rusty black ca.s.sock came in, making his way among the men on the straw. It was the French priest, who had refused to leave his broken church: a little, fat man, not in the least like a hero, but with as knightly a soul as was ever found in armour and with lance in rest.

He pa.s.sed from man to man, speaking in quaint English, occasionally dropping gladly into French when he found some one able to answer him in his own language. He had nothing to give them but water; but that he carried tirelessly many times a day. His little store of bandages and ointment had gone long ago, but he bathed wounds, helped cramped men to change their position, and did the best he could to make the evil straw into the semblance of a comfortable bed. To the helpless men on the floor of the church his coming meant something akin to Paradise.

He paused near a little Irishman with a broken leg, a man of the Dublin Fusiliers, whose pain had not been able to destroy his good temper.

”How are you to-night, _mon garcon?_”

”Yerra, not too bad, Father,” said the Irishman. ”If I could have just a taste of water, now?” He drank deeply as the priest lifted his head, and sank back with a word of thanks.

”This feather pillow of mine is apt to slip if I don't watch it,” he said, wriggling the back of his head against the cold stone of the floor, from which the straw had worked away. ”I dunno could you gather it up a bit, Father.” He grinned. ”I'd ask you to put me boots under me for a pillow, but if them thieving guards found them loose, they'd shweep them from me.”

”Ss-h, my son!” the priest whispered warningly. He shook up a handful of straw and made it as firm as he could under the man's head. ”It is not prudent to speak so loud. Remember you cannot see who may be behind you.”

”Indeed and I cannot,” returned Denny Callaghan. ”I'll remember, Father. That's great!” He settled his head thankfully on the straw pillow. ”I'll sleep aisier to-night for that.”

”And _Monsieur le Capitaine_--has he moved yet?” The priest glanced at a motionless form near them.

”Well, indeed he did, Father, this afternoon. He gev a turn, an' he said something like 'Tired People.' I thought there was great sense in that, if he was talkin' to us, so I was cheered up about him--but not a word have I got out of him since. But it's something that he spoke at all.”

The _cure_ bent over the quiet figure. Two dark eyes opened, as if with difficulty, and met his.

”Norah,” said Jim Linton. ”Are you there, Norah?”

”I am a friend, my son,” said the _cure_. ”Are you in pain?”

The dark eyes looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then he murmured, ”Water!”

”It is here.” The little priest held the heavy head, and Jim managed to drink a little. Something like a shadow of a smile came into his eyes as the priest wiped his lips. Then they closed again.

”If they would send us a doctor!” muttered the _cure_, in his own language, longingly. ”_Ma joi_, what a lad!” He looked down in admiration at the splendid helpless body.

”He won't die, Father, will he?”

”I do not know, my son. I can find no wound, except the one on his head--nothing seems broken. Perhaps he will be better to-morrow.” He gave the little Irishman his blessing and moved away. There were many eager eyes awaiting him.

Jim was restless during the night; Denny Callaghan, himself unable to sleep, watched him muttering and trying to turn, but unable to move.

”I doubt but his back's broken,” said the little man ruefully.

”Yerra, what a pity!” He tried to soothe the boy with kind words; and towards the dawn Jim slept heavily.

He woke when the sun was s.h.i.+ning upon him through a rift in the wall.

The church was full of smothered sounds--stifled groans from helpless men, stiffened by lying still, and trying to move. Jim managed to raise himself a little, at which Denny Callaghan gave an exclamation of relief.