Her words—­wild, almost incoherent—­aroused me to new strength of purpose.  To remain idle there, amid such surroundings, would wreck the girl’s reason.

“It was a desperate struggle, lass,” I said, “but there are living men here as well as dead, and they need help.  Draw this man off me, so I can sit up against the wall.  Don’t be afraid, dear; that is Miles, and he is yet alive.  I felt his pulse a moment ago, and it was still beating.”

She shrank from the grewsome task, her hands trembling, her face white, yet she drew the heavy body back, resting the head upon the pile of plaster.  The next moment her arms were about me, and I sat up supported by her shoulder.  Even this slight movement caused me to clinch my teeth in agony, and she cried out,

“You are hurt?  Tell me the truth!”

“My shoulder and side pain me,” I admitted, “but they are nothing to worry over.  Can you find water?”

“Yes,” eager now for action.  She was gone not to exceed a minute, returning with a pail and cloth, and dropping again on her knees, began bathing my face.

“It is a charnel house, with dead lying everywhere.  I had to step across their bodies to get to the kitchen, and stopped to give one poor wounded lad a drink.  Oh, I never can blot this scene out; it will haunt me in my dreams.”  Tears were in her eyes, and stealing down her cheeks, but there was no faltering.  Softly she bathed the wound on my head, and bound it up.  Then she kissed me.  “Will they never come to help us?” she cried, lifting her eyes from mine.  “Hear that man yonder groan.  What can I do, Robert?  I cannot sit still here!”

“Try to revive Miles,” I suggested, pointing to him.  “You heard what he replied when I called him just before the charge.  He had caught the murderer, and, if he dies, we may never know the man’s identity.  Here, Billie, take this cloth and sprinkle water on his face.  Don’t mind me any more; I am all right now.”

She started to do as I requested but had scarcely dampened the rag when a man came in through the wrecked door, picked his way forward a couple of steps, and stopped, staring about at the scene.  Behind him were other figures blocking the entrance.  Apparently we were indistinguishable from where he stood, for he called out,

“Is there any one alive here?”

I heard a weak response or two, and then answered, “A few, yes—­back here behind the stairs.”

He moved to one side, shading his eyes with one hand so as to see better.  I could tell now he wore the uniform of a Federal officer, but was unable to distinguish his rank.  The sight of the girl, standing in the midst of all that horror, her loosened hair falling below her waist, evidently startled him.  An instant he stared toward us incredulously; then removed his hat.

“Who are you?”

“I am Lieutenant Galesworth,” I answered, although his question was directed to her.  “And this lady is Miss Hardy, the daughter of Major Hardy of the Confederate army.”