Touching his forehead in salute, he said, “Thank you, sir.  Where shall I go?”

“Up there,” replied the colonel.  “You will be cared for.”

The man limped away followed by Penhallow, who glanced at the torn Confederate banners lying blood-stained about the wall and beyond it.  He read their labels—­Manassas, Chancellorsville, Sharpsburg.  One marked Fredericksburg lay gripped in the hand of a dead sergeant.  He crossed the wall to look for the body of the captain of the battery; men were lifting it.  “My God!—­Poor boy!” murmured the colonel, as he looked on the white face of death.  He asked who was the Rebel general who had fallen beside Cushing.

“General Armistead,” said an officer—­“mortally wounded, they say.”

Penhallow turned and went down the slope again.  Far away, widely scattered, he caught glimpses of this rash and gallant attack.  He was aware of that strange complex odour which rises from a battlefield.  It affected him as horrible and as unlike any other unpleasant smell.  Feeling better, he busied himself directing those who were aiding the wounded.  A general officer he did not know said to him, “Stop the firing from that regiment.”

A number of still excited men of one of the flanking brigades on our right were firing uselessly at the dimly seen and remote mass of the enemy.  Penhallow went quickly to the right, and as he drew near shouted, “Stop those men—­quit firing!” He raised his hand to call attention to his order.  The firing lessened, and seeing that he was understood he turned away.  At the moment he was not fifty feet from the flanking line, and had moved far down the slope as one of the final shots rang out.  He felt something like a blow on his right temple, and as he staggered was aware of the gush of blood down his face.  “What fool did that?” he exclaimed as he reeled and fell.  He rose, fell, rose again, and managed to tie a handkerchief around his head.  He stumbled to the wall and lay down, his head aching.  He could go no further.  “Queer, that,” he murmured; “they might have seen.”  He sat up; things around him were doubled to his view.

“Are you hit?” said Haskell, who was directing stretcher-bearers and sending prisoners to the rear.

“Not badly.”  He was giddy and in great pain.  Then he was aware of the anxious face of Josiah.

“My God! you hurt, sir?  Come to look for you—­can you ride?  I fetched Dixy—­mare’s killed.”

“I am not badly hurt.  Tighten this handkerchief and give me your arm—­I can’t ride,”

He arose, and amazed at his weakness, dragged himself down the slope, through the reforming lines, the thousands of prisoners, the reinforcing cannon and the wreckage of the hillside.  He fell on his couch, and more at ease began to think, with some difficulty in controlling his thoughts.  At last he said, “I shall be up to-morrow,” and lay still, seeing, as the late afternoon went by, Grey Pine and Ann Penhallow.  Then he was aware of Captain Haskell and a surgeon, who dressed his wound and said, “It was mere shock—­there is no fracture.  The ball cut the artery and tore the scalp.  You’ll be all right in a day or two.”