There was no misreading that look; the captain had too frequently seen it in eyes of those whose lips had still the power to formulate it by an entreaty for death.  Consciously or unconsciously, this writhing fragment of humanity, this type and example of acute sensation, this handiwork of man and beast, this humble, unheroic Prometheus, was imploring everything, all, the whole non-ego, for the boon of oblivion.  To the earth and the sky alike, to the trees, to the man, to whatever took form in sense or consciousness, this incarnate suffering addressed that silent plea.

For what, indeed?  For that which we accord to even the meanest creature without sense to demand it, denying it only to the wretched of our own race:  for the blessed release, the rite of uttermost compassion, the coup de grace.

Captain Madwell spoke the name of his friend.  He repeated it over and over without effect until emotion choked his utterance.

His tears plashed upon the livid face beneath his own and blinded himself.  He saw nothing but a blurred and moving object, but the moans were more distinct than ever, interrupted at briefer intervals by sharper shrieks.  He turned away, struck his hand upon his forehead, and strode from the spot.  The swine, catching sight of him, threw up their crimson muzzles, regarding him suspiciously a second, and then with a gruff, concerted grunt, raced away out of sight.  A horse, its foreleg splintered by a cannon-shot, lifted its head sidewise from the ground and neighed piteously.  Madwell stepped forward, drew his revolver and shot the poor beast between the eyes, narrowly observing its death-struggle, which, contrary to his expectation, was violent and long; but at last it lay still.  The tense muscles of its lips, which had uncovered the teeth in a horrible grin, relaxed; the sharp, clean-cut profile took on a look of profound peace and rest.

Along the distant, thinly wooded crest to westward the fringe of sunset fire had now nearly burned itself out.  The light upon the trunks of the trees had faded to a tender gray; shadows were in their tops, like great dark birds aperch.  Night was coming and there were miles of haunted forest between Captain Madwell and camp.  Yet he stood there at the side of the dead animal, apparently lost to all sense of his surroundings.  His eyes were bent upon the earth at his feet; his left hand hung loosely at his side, his right still held the pistol.  Presently he lifted his face, turned it toward his dying friend and walked rapidly back to his side.  He knelt upon one knee, cocked the weapon, placed the muzzle against the man’s forehead, and turning away his eyes pulled the trigger.  There was no report.  He had used his last cartridge for the horse.

The sufferer moaned and his lips moved convulsively.  The froth that ran from them had a tinge of blood.