Faithful Ruslan (26 page)

It was, however, Ruslan’s fate that even in his last hour the Service did not leave him. It summoned him at the very moment of his crossing to the other shore—calling upon him to make some last response. At that hour, when the Service was being betrayed by the truest of the true, who had sworn without reserve to give their lives for it; when it was being renounced and forsaken by ministers and generals, judges and hangmen, by hired spies and voluntary informers alike; when the very standard-bearers were trampling upon its despised banners—at that hour the Service sought for a prop and stay, called for at least one whose loyalty had not faltered—and the dying soldier heard the call of the war trumpets.

He thought that his master had returned—no, not his previous master, the Corporal; it was someone else, who had no scent and was wearing new boots, to whose smell he still had to grow accustomed. But the hand that he laid on Ruslan’s forehead was firm and masterful.

 … The buckle clicked, releasing his collar. Stretching his arm toward the distance, his master pointed to where the Enemy was. And Ruslan, breaking loose, raced away in that direction—in long, springy strides, without touching
the ground—powerful, free of pain, free of fear and free of love for man or beast. Behind him rang out Ruslan’s favorite word, the one and only reward for all his pain and for all his faithfulness:

“Get him, Ruslan! … Get!”