the way he met a mounted staff officer, and he raised his hand to his
hatless, bleeding forehead, in a stern salute and, without a gesture for
aid, staggered on. The officer's eyes filled with tears.

"Lieutenant," said a trooper, just after the charge on the trenches, "I
think I'm wounded."

"Can you get to the rear without help?"

"I think I can, sir," and he started. After twenty paces he pitched
forward--dead. His wound was through the heart.

At the divisional hospital were more lights, tents, surgeons, stripped
figures on the tables under the lights; rows of figures in darkness
outside the tents; and rows of muffled shapes behind; the smell of
anæsthetics and cleansing fluids; heavy breathing, heavy groaning, and
an occasional curse on the night air.

Beyond him was a stretch of moonlit road and coming toward him was a
soldier, his arm in a sling, and staggering weakly from side to side.
With a start of pure gladness he saw that it was Crittenden, and he
advanced with his hand outstretched.

"Are you badly hurt?"

"Oh, no," said Crittenden, pointing to his hand and arm, but not
mentioning the bullet through his chest.

"Oh, but I'm glad. I thought you were gone sure when I saw you laid out
on the hill."