As they crowded about he stirred slightly,
sighed deeply, and lay perfectly still.
CHAPTER XXVII
DECENT BURIAL
To-morrow? 'Tis not ours to know
That we again shall see the flowers.
To-morrow is the gods'--but, oh!
To day is ours.
--C.E. Merrill, Jr.
Claiborne called Oscar through the soft dusk of the April evening. The
phalanx of stars marched augustly across the heavens. Claiborne lifted
his face gratefully to the cool night breeze, for he was worn with the
stress and anxiety of the day, and there remained much to do. The
bungalow had been speedily transformed into a hospital. One nurse,
borrowed from a convalescent patient at the Springs, was to be reinforced
by another summoned by wire from Washington. The Ambassador's demand
to be allowed to remove Armitage to his own house at the Springs had been
promptly rejected by the surgeon. A fever had hold of John Armitage, who
was ill enough without the wound in his shoulder, and the surgeon moved
his traps to the bungalow and took charge of the case. Oscar had brought
Claiborne's bag, and all was now in readiness for the night.
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