They stood about the group awhile in silence; the staff officer was thinking of his unfinished supper, the orderly of what might possibly be in one of the casks on the other side of the cellar.  Suddenly the man whom they had thought dead raised his head and gazed tranquilly into their faces.  His complexion was coal black; the cheeks were apparently tattooed in irregular sinuous lines from the eyes downward.  The lips, too, were white, like those of a stage negro.  There was blood upon his forehead.

The staff officer drew back a pace, the orderly two paces.

“What are you doing here, my man?” said the colonel, unmoved.

“This house belongs to me, sir,” was the reply, civilly delivered.

“To you?  Ah, I see!  And these?”

“My wife and child.  I am Captain Coulter.”

THE COUP DE GRACE

The fighting had been hard and continuous; that was attested by all the senses.  The very taste of battle was in the air.  All was now over; it remained only to succor the wounded and bury the dead—­to “tidy up a bit,” as the humorist of a burial squad put it.  A good deal of “tidying up” was required.  As far as one could see through the forests, among the splintered trees, lay wrecks of men and horses.  Among them moved the stretcher-bearers, gathering and carrying away the few who showed signs of life.  Most of the wounded had died of neglect while the right to minister to their wants was in dispute.  It is an army regulation that the wounded must wait; the best way to care for them is to win the battle.  It must be confessed that victory is a distinct advantage to a man requiring attention, but many do not live to avail themselves of it.

The dead were collected in groups of a dozen or a score and laid side by side in rows while the trenches were dug to receive them.

Some, found at too great a distance from these rallying points, were buried where they lay.  There was little attempt at identification, though in most cases, the burial parties being detailed to glean the same ground which they had assisted to reap, the names of the victorious dead were known and listed.  The enemy’s fallen had to be content with counting.  But of that they got enough:  many of them were counted several times, and the total, as given afterward in the official report of the victorious commander, denoted rather a hope than a result.

At some little distance from the spot where one of the burial parties had established its “bivouac of the dead,” a man in the uniform of a Federal officer stood leaning against a tree.  From his feet upward to his neck his attitude was that of weariness reposing; but he turned his head uneasily from side to side; his mind was apparently not at rest.  He was perhaps uncertain in which direction to go; he was not likely to remain long where he was, for already the level rays of the setting sun straggled redly through the open spaces of the wood and the weary soldiers were quitting their task for the day.  He would hardly make a night of it alone there among the dead.