Jamieson moved like a man in pain. "You mean, you mean----" he whispered. "Oh, Captain, I've waited and waited." "Bravely--we all know that. And there's reward for you." Behind Jamieson, the others were leaning forward, hopeful, fearful--in a fever of emotions. The cheering outside had grown. More people were running up the walk--children, men, bareheaded women. "Jamieson," said the captain, "you'll be very calm?" Jamieson relaxed, faltering forward. "I'll try! I'll try!" he promised. Lounsbury caught him. "Tell him, Oliver," he begged. The captain turned the knob, took Jamieson by a wrist and led him out through the entry. On the gallery was a second group. It whispered. It laughed. It cried. It looked north to where the road came down from the landing. "Easy now, easy," cautioned Oliver. He patted Jamieson, led him down the steps, and faced him up the Line. "There, my dear boy," he said. On the upper edge of the parade-ground, the men of B Troop were surrounding some travellers, caps in air. With their cheers mingled wild shouts. And one of them was singing the lines of a song, fervent, loud and martial: "_Glory, glory, Hallelujah! Glory, glory, Hallelujah!_" For a moment, as one who questions his own sight and hearing, Jamieson gazed before him. Then, he flung up his arms and sprang forward with a great cry: "Mother! mother! _Alice!_" Down the Line they had taken up the singing. And to it, the troopers dividing, the travellers came into full view. There was a wagon, with red wheels, a green box, and drawn by a milk-white horse. On its seat were two women, who clung to each other as they looked about. Above them a cross of rude boards stood straight up into the sunlight of the morning. And beside the cross, driving, sat a man--an aged man--white-haired, priestly, patriarchal. CHAPTER XLI TAPS