he sez. ‘Ye’ve come too soon. In another minute they cud not ha’ missed me. Mother av God,’ he sez, ‘fwhy did ye not lave me be? Now ‘tis all to do again,’ an’ he hides his face in his hands.
“‘So that’s it,’ I sez, shakin’ him again. ‘That’s th manin’ av your disobeyin’ ordhers.’
“‘I dare not kill meself,’ he sez, rockin’ to and fro. ‘My own hand wud not let me die, and there’s not a bullet this month past wud touch me. I’m to die slow,’ he sez. ‘I’m to die slow. But I’m in hell now,’ he sez, shriekin’ like a woman. ‘I’m in hell now!’
“‘God be good to us all,’ I sez, for I saw his face. ‘Will ye tell a man the throuble. If ‘tis not murder, maybe we’ll mend it yet.’
“At that he laughed. ‘D’you remimber fwhat I said in the Tyrone barricks about comin’ to you for ghostly consolation. I have not forgot,’ he sez. ‘That came back, an’ the rest av my time is on me now, Terence. I’ve fought ut off for months an’ months, but the liquor will not bite any more, Terence,’ he sez. ‘I can’t get dhrunk.’
“Thin I knew he spoke the truth about bein’ in hell, for whin liquor does not take hould, the sowl av a man is rotten in him. But me bein’ such as I was, fwhat could I say to him?
“‘Di’monds an’ pearls,’ he begins again. ‘Di’monds and pearls I have thrown away wid both hands — an’ fwhat have I left? Oh, fwhat have I left?’
“He was shakin’ an’ thremblin’ up against my shouldher, an’ the slugs was singin’ overhead, an’ I was wonderin’ whether my little bhoy wud have sinse enough to kape his men quiet through all this firin’.
“‘So long as I did not think,’ sez Love-o’-Women, ‘so long I did not see — I wud not see — but I can now, what I’ve lost. The time an’ the place,’ he sez, ‘an’ the very words I said whin ut pleased me to go off alone to hell. But thin, even thin,’ he sez, wrigglin’ tremenjus, ‘I wud not ha’ been happy. There was too much behind av me. How cud I ha’ believed her sworn oath — me that have bruk mine again an’ again for the sport av seein’ thim cry. An’ there are the others,’ he sez. ‘Oh, what will I do — what will I do’?’ He rocked back an’ forward again, an’ I think he was cryin’ like wan av the women he dealt wid.
“The full half av fwhat he said was Brigade Ordhers to me, but from the rest an’ the remnint I suspicioned somethin’ av his throuble. ‘Twas the judgmint av God had grup the heel av him, as I tould him ‘twould in the Tyrone barricks. The slugs was singin’ over our rock more an’ more, an’ I sez for to divart him: ‘Let bad alone,’ I sez. ‘They’ll be thryin’ to rush the camp in a minut’.’
“I had no more than said that whin a Paythan man crep’ up on his belly wid his knife betune his teeth, not twinty yards from us. Love-o’-Women jumped up an’ fetched a yell, an’ the man saw him an’ ran at him (he’d left his rifle under the rock) wid the knife. Love-o’-Women niver turned a hair, but by the Living Power, for I saw ut, a stone twisted under the Paythan man’s feet an’ he came down full sprawl, an’ his knife wint tinklin’ acrost the rocks! ‘I tould you I was Cain,’ sez Love-o’-Women.’ ‘Fwhat’s the use av killin’ him? He’s an honest man — by compare.’
“I was not dishputin’ about the morils av Paythans that tide, so I dhropped Love-o’-Women’s burt acrost the man’s face, an’ ‘Hurry into camp,’ I sez, ‘for this may be the first av a rush.’
“There was no rush afther all, though we waited undher arms to give thim a chanst. The Paythan man must ha’ come alone for the mischief, an’ afther a while Love-o’-Women wint back to his tint wid that quare lurchin’ sind-off in his walk that I cud niver undherstand. Begad, I pitied him, an’ the more bekaze he made me think for the rest av the night av the day whin I was confirmed Corp’ril, not actin’ Lef’tenant, an’ my thoughts was not good.
“Ye can undherstand that afther that night we came to talkin’ a dale together, an’ bit by bit ut came out fwhat I’d suspicioned. The whole av his carr’in’s on an’ divilmints had come back on him hard as liquor comes back whin you’ve been on the dhrink for a wake. All he’d said an’ all he’d done, an’ only he cud tell how much that was, come back, an’ there was niver a minut’s peace in his sowl. ‘Twas the Horrors widout any cause to see, an’ yet, an’ yet — fwhat am I talkin’ av? He’d ha’ taken the Horrors wid thankfulness. Beyon’ the repentince av the man, an’ that was beyon’ the natur av man — awful, awful, to behould! — there was more that was worst than any repentince. Av the scores an’ scores that he called over in his mind (an’ they were dhrivin’ him mad), there was, mark you, wan woman av all, an’ she was not his wife, that cut him to the quick av his marrow. ‘Twas there he said that he’d thrown away di’monds an’ pearls past count, an’ thin he’d begin again like a blind byle in an oil-mill, walkin’ round an’ round, to considher (him that was beyond all touch av being happy this side hell!) how happy he wud ha’ been wid her. The more he considhered, the more he’d consate himself that he’d lost mighty happiness, an’ thin he wud work ut all backwards, an’ cry that he niver cud ha’ been happy anyways.
“Time an’ time an’ again in camp, on p’rade, ay, an’ in action, I’ve seen that man shut his eyes an’ duck his head as you wud duck to the flicker av a bay’nit. For ‘twas thin he tould me that the thought av all he’d missed came an’ stud forninst him like red-hot irons. For what he’d done wid the others he was sorry, but he did not care; but this wan woman that I’ve tould of, by the Hilts av God she made him pay for all the others twice over! Niver did I know that a man cud enjure such tormint widout his heart crackin’ in his ribs, an’ I have been” — Terence turned the pipe-stem slowly between his teeth — “I have been in some black cells. All I iver suffered tho’ was not to be talked of alongside av him... an’ what could I do? Paternosters was no more than peas for his sorrow.
“Evenshually we finished our prom’nade acrost the hills, and thanks to me for the same, there was no casualties an’ no glory. The campaign was comin’ to an ind, an’ all the rig’mints was bein’ drawn together for to be sint back home. Love-o’-Women was mighty sorry bekaze he had no work to do, an’ all his time to think in. I’ve heard that man talkin’ to his belt-plate an’ his side-arms while he was soldierin’ thim, all to prevint himself from thinkin’, an’ ivry time he got up afther he had been settin’ down or wint on from the halt, he’d start wid that kick an’ traverse that I tould you of — his legs sprawlin’ all ways to wanst. He wud niver go see the docthor, tho’ I tould him to be wise. He’d curse me up an’ down for my advice; but I knew he was no more a man to be reckoned wid than the little bhoy was a commandin’ orf’cer, so I let his tongue run if it aised him.
“Wan day — ‘twas on the way back — I was walkin’ round camp wid him, an’ he stopped an’ struck ground wid his right fut three or four times doubtful. ‘Fwhat is ut?’ I sez. ‘Is that ground?’ sez he; an’ while I was thinkin’ his mind was goin’, up comes the docthor, who’d been anatomisin’ a dead bullock. Love-o’-Women starts to go on quick, an’ lands me a kick on the knee while his legs was gettin’ into marchin’ ordher.
“Hould on there,’ sez the docthor; an’ Love-o’-Women’s face, that was lined like a gridiron, turns red as brick.
“‘Tention,’ says the docthor; an’ Love-o’-Women stud so. ‘Now shut your eyes,’ sez the docthor. ‘No, ye must not hould by your comrade.’
“‘Tis all
