"
There came to the hospital at the same time with young Percy an
intimate friend and comrade of his, whose name and the circumstances
of his death were preserved in a diary kept by me, but which, with all
my papers, fell into the hands of the enemy subsequently. This poor
fellow had pneumonia, which soon developed into typhoid. He was
delirious when brought in and never regained consciousness. Vainly I
strove to soothe him, stroking back the long, straight hair, black as
a raven's wing, vainly trying to close the magnificent black eyes,
which forever stared into space, while the plaintive voice repeated
ceaselessly, "Viens a moi, oh, ma mere" and thus he moaned and moaned
until at last the white eyelids drooped beneath the gaze of Death, and
the finger of eternal silence was laid upon the fevered lips.
Of course Percy was not told how his friend died until long afterward,
when his questions could no longer be evaded. He was deeply moved,
crying out, "I don't want to die like that. If I must die during this
war, I hope I shall be instantly killed upon the battle-field." This
wish was granted.
He sleeps in a soldier's grave.
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