had toughened him to all the accidents of war, and the coldest and longest night's watch after the hardest day's fighting or marching came to him, as a rule, naturally enough. But he had been wounded in the fight, though not seriously, yet painfully, and between the consequent loss of blood and the bitter cold was weary well nigh to death. In the dead stillness of the night the monotonous chant of the river near at hand combined with weakness and weariness to stupefy his senses, and for minutes together he shuffled along the track he had worn in the snow with a quite unconscious persistence, awakening at the end of his beat with a nerve-shattering start, and falling asleep again ere he had well turned to retrace his steps. At last, a deeper doze was terminated by his falling at full length in the snow. He gathered his stiff, cold limbs together, and limped along shivering, swearing at the snow which had penetrated different loopholes of his ragged uniform, and, slowly melted by contact with his scarce warmer skin, served at last to keep him awake. He drew from his pocket a flask containing a modicum of whisky. It was little enough—he could gratefully have drunk twice the amount; but, with a self-denial taught by many bitter experiences, he took only a mouthful, and reserved the rest for future needs. It warmed his starven blood, and helped the melting snow, now trickling down his back in a steady stream, to keep him awake.
With a vague idea that a new beat would somewhat relieve the monotony of his watch, he struck into another track, and trudged resolutely at right angles with his former course, the two lines of footsteps making a gigantic cross upon the snow. His former lassitude was again beginning to conquer him, when it was suddenly dissipated by a voice, which rang out on the stillness with startling suddenness, instinct with anguish.
"If you have the heart of a man in your breast, for God's sake, help me!"
Twenty feet from where he stood, Roland beheld the figure of a man raised feebly on one elbow above the level of the snow. There was only just light enough to distinguish it. He approached him cautiously, with his rifle advanced, and shooting rapid glances from the prostrate figure to every clump of snow-covered herbage or inequality of ground which might afford shelter for an ambuscade.
"I am alone," the man said.
He spoke each word upon a separate sob of pain and weakness. He wore the Southern uniform, and Roland saw that one arm and one leg dragged from his body, helpless and distorted. An old sabre cut traversed his face from the cheek-bone to the temple. He looked the very genius of defeat.
"I am dying!" he panted at Roland.
The young man pulled his beard as he looked down at him, and shrugged his shoulders with a scarce perceptible gesture.
"I know," said the Southerner; "I don't growl at that. I've let daylight into a few of your fellows in my time, and would again, if I got the chance. Now it's my turn, and I'm going to take it quiet. But I want to say something—to write something to my wife in Charlestown. Will you do that for me? It isn't much for one man to ask of another. I don't want to die and rot in this cursed wilderness without saying good-bye to her."
"You must look sharp, then," said Roland, kneeling beside him, 'for I shall be called into camp in a few minutes."
He took an old letter from his pocket, and with numbed fingers began to write, at the wounded man's dictation, on its blank side.
"My darling Rose," he began.
Roland started as if stung by a snake, and bent a sudden look of questioning anger on his companion's face. The Southerner looked back at him for a moment with a look of surprise. Then his face changed.
"Jim Vickers!" said Roland.
"Roland Pearse!" cried the other; and for a moment there was silence between them.
"Last time your name passed my lips," said Roland, slowly, "I swore to put a bullet into you on sight."
"I guess you needn't," said Vickers; "I've got two already. Not that I'm particular to a bullet or so, only you might finish the letter first, anyhow. For God's sake, Pearse," he continued, sudden emotion conquering his dare-devil cynicism, "write the letter! It's for Rose. She won't have a cent in the world if I can't send her the news I want you to write, and she and the child will starve. I got her by a trick, I know, and a nasty trick too; but I'd have done murder to get her. She was the only woman I ever cared a straw for, really. And she loves me, too. Shoot me, if you like; but, for God's sake, write the letter!"
