He had been wounded in the arm, at the late battle before Vicksburg,
but not the least notice had been taken of it by the rebels, and he
was suffering the most intense agony. Frank, although scarcely able to
sustain himself, owing to the swollen condition of his feet, offered
his assistance, which the poor fellow was glad enough to accept. But
he continued to grow weaker every moment, and, finally, in spite of
Frank's exertions, fell prostrate in the road.

"What's the matter here?" inquired the colonel, who happened to be
riding by.

"This man isn't able to go any further," replied Frank.

"Then he doesn't need any of your help, you young Abolitionist; get
back to your place! Here, Stiles," he continued, beckoning to one of
his men and bending upon him a glance of peculiar meaning, "you stay
here until this man dies."

The colonel rode up to the head of the column again, and Frank was
obliged to move on with the others. But he could not relieve his mind
of a feeling that something more dreadful than any thing he had yet
seen was about to take place. He frequently turned and looked back,
and saw the man lying where he had fallen, and the rebel, who had
dismounted from his horse, standing over him, leaning on his rifle. At
length a bend in the road hid them from sight. In a few moments, Frank
heard the report of a gun, and presently the rebel rode up, with the
coat, pants, and boots which had once belonged to the soldier, hanging
on his arm. Such scenes as this were enacted every day; but, for some
unaccountable reason, Frank was not molested, beyond having his boots
stolen one night while he was asleep. He had made up his mind that he