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.
I keep forgetting that the nurse is here. The Measure is
still new to me. And I forget where . . .
THE SNOW, she says.
The snow. It was misery on horseback. I trust it was
more miserable on foot, for boots were scarce, and most of
the men had wrapped their feet in rags against frostbite and
the sharp edges of ice. Breca, an old veteran among the foot
soldiers, had bargained, begged, and finally threatened my
boots from me on the road to the tower. And though I was
angry at first, when I saw the boy to whom he gave the
boots, saw the blisters and blackness about his ankles, the
blood through the rags bright on the merciless road, the
threats were unnecessary.
We passed the first night of the blizzard in marching.
Breca returned the boots the next morning. Averted his
eyes, said that the boy had no further need, that he rested
with Huma now. Breca rejoined his column, and Sir Heros,
uncomfortable but safe at least upon horseback, told me I
had SEEN THE DARK SIDE OF WAR, THAT MEN DIE,
BOYS DIE, LAYING DOWN THEIR LIVES FOR JUSTICE
AND FOR A HIGHER CAUSE. It was almost inscribed,
surely a speech he must have prepared for this moment as a
promise to our father, something that smacked of the SONG
OF HUMA to reassure and hearten his squire, the son of his
fallen comrade
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