be likely to see what color the rims of his animal’s eye-sockets were. You could not see them if you sat as you ought to for such a hard ride. Of the next piece that she read him he thought still better. “And it is short,” said he. “But the last part drops.” Molly instantly exacted particulars.
“The soldier should not have told the general he was killed,” stated the cow-puncher.
“What should he have told him, I’d like to know?” said Molly.
“Why, just nothing. If the soldier could ride out of the battle all shot up, and tell his general about their takin’ the town--that was being gritty, yu’ see. But that truck at the finish--will yu’ please say it again?” So Molly read:--
Touched to the quick, he said,
‘I’m killed, sire!’ And, his chief beside,
Smiling the boy fell dead.” “’
Nay, I’m killed, sire,’” drawled the Virginian, amiably; for (symptom of convalescence) his freakish irony was revived in him. “Now a man who was man enough to act like he did, yu’ see, would fall dead without mentioning it.” None of Molly’s sweet girl friends had ever thus challenged Mr. Browning. They had been wont to cluster over him with a joyous awe that deepened proportionally with their misunderstanding. Molly paused to consider this novelty of view about the soldier. “He was a Frenchman, you know,” she said, under inspiration.
“A Frenchman,” murmured the grave cowpuncher. “I never knowed a Frenchman, but I reckon they might perform that class of foolishness.” “But why was it foolish?” she cried.
“His soldier’s pride--don’t you see?” “No.” Molly now burst into a luxury of discussion. She leaned toward her cow-puncher with bright eyes searching his; with elbow on knee and hand propping chin, her lap became a slant, and from it Browning the poet slid and toppled, and lay unrescued. For the slow cow- puncher unfolded his notions of masculine courage and modesty (though he did not deal in such high- sounding names), and Molly forgot everything to listen to him, as he forgot himself and his inveterate shyness and grew talkative to her. “I would never have supposed that!” she would exclaim as she heard him; or, presently again, “I never had such an idea!” And her mind opened with delight to these new things which came from the man’s mind so simple and direct. To Browning they did come back, but the Virginian, though interested, conceived a dislike for him. “He is a smarty,” said he, once or twice.
“Now here is something,” said Molly. “I have never known what to think.” “Oh, Heavens!” murmured the sick man, smiling. “Is it short?” “Very short. Now please attend.” And she read him twelve lines about a lover who rowed to a beach in the dusk, crossed a field, tapped at a pane, and was admitted.
“That is the best yet,” said the Virginian. “There’s only one thing yu’ can think about that.” “But wait,” said the girl, swiftly. “Here is how they parted:--
And the sun looked over the mountain’s rim--
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.”
“That is very, very true,” murmured the Virginian, dropping his eyes from the girl’s intent ones.
“Had they quarrelled?” she inquired.
“Oh, no!” “But--”
“I reckon he loved her very much.” “Then you’re sure they hadn’t quarrelled?” “Dead sure, ma’am. He would come back afteh he had played some more of the game.” “The game?” “Life, ma’am. Whatever he was a-doin’ in the world of men. That’s a bed-rock piece, ma’am!” “Well, I don’t see why you think it’s so much better than some of the others.” “I could sca’cely explain,” answered the man. “But that