ten o'clock
Officers of rank and soldiers from the ranks , in rusty blue , in gleaming white , in dingy Khaki rubbed shoulders and elbows in the crowded courtyard . In the presence of death the American remembers that men are born equal , and forgets the ceremonious observance of military courtesies . All voices were lowered , all discussion hushed . There was a spontaneous movement when the division commander entered , and all made way for him without a word , but sturdily stood the rank and file and held their ground against all others , for the preliminary examination , as it might be called , was to take place at ten o'clock . The dead man was of their own grade , and an ugly story had gone like wildfire through the barracks and quarters that his slayer was a commissioned officer , an aide-de-camp of the general himself , a scion of a distinguished and wealthy family of the greatest city of America , and all official influence , presumably , would be enlisted in his behalf . Therefore , silent , yet determined , were they present in strong force , not in disrespect , not in defiance , but with that calm yet indomitable resolution to see for themselves that justice was done , that soldiers of no other than the Anglo-Saxon race could ever imitate , or that officers , not American , could ever understand , appreciate , and even tacitly approve . The dead man had died instantly , not in the flush and glory of battle , but in the lonely , yet most honorable , discharge of the sacred duty of the sentinel .