He and his stinging repartees,
his perpetual laughter, his bright, infectious courage,
had come into their dull and dreary lives like
a wandering sunbeam; and that he should die, and
at their hands, was to them as the darkening of
the clear lamps of heaven.
Under the great fig-tree in the courtyard, his
grave was waiting for him. It had been dug in
the night by unwilling hands; and tears had fallen
on the spade. As he passed he looked down,
smiling, at the black pit and the withering grass
beside it; and drew a long breath, to smell the
scent of the freshly turned earth.
Near the tree the sergeant stopped short, and
the Gadfly looked round with his brightest smile.
"Shall I stand here, sergeant?"
The man nodded silently; there was a lump in
his throat, and he could not have spoken to save
his life. The Governor, his nephew, the lieutenant
of carabineers who was to command, a doctor and
a priest were already in the courtyard, and came
forward with grave faces, half abashed under the
radiant defiance of the Gadfly's laughing eyes.
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