XXIII
THE CROSS ON THE MOUNTAIN
Jules turned from the water’s edge. The night was clear with the light of the rising moon.
“To-mor’ Ah tak’ toi sur la montagne, an’ mak’ de las’ camp pour toi là-bas,” he said mournfully to the body of his friend, then lay beside it on the cold ground; all night he lay there, awake and bitterly saddened.
“Eef Ah had onlee comme back for dat knife!” he muttered again and again.
At dawn he got up, hungry and aching, and tenderly fastened carrying-straps, which he made from his own shirt, about Le Grand’s stiff body; he straightened out the cold limbs, lifted the dead-weight form to his back, and started on his last tramp with his friend. He lingered over the places where Le Grand had rested the day before, and smoothed the mosses where his “ami” had sat, and finally he reached the peak of Mont d’Ours again with his burden.
The clouds hovered near, almost touching the height. Jules gathered stones and built a grave of smooth slabs; when it was finished he reverently placed the body in it, straightening out the arms and legs and crossing the toil-scarred hands.
“Adieu, mon ami,” he whispered, and laid stone on stone on and round the grave. He made it thick and heavy, so that the winds of heaven should not tear it apart, and on top of all he roughly fashioned a big cross. When it was done he prayed for a moment, then waved his hand. “Somme taime, Le Grand, mabbe Ah see toi h’aga’n,” he said gravely, and went away.