Seeing him there with his lantern and instruments, they brought him one wounded man after another, to whom he gave what aid he could, and then despatched them in the army-wagons, looking impatiently after Dan, in his search for the Captain.  He had not known before how much he cared for McKinstry, with a curious protecting care.  Other men in the army were more his chums than Mac, but they were coarse, able to take care of themselves.  Mac was like that simple-hearted old Israelite in whom there was no guile.  In the camp he had been perpetually imposed on by his men,—­giving them treats of fresh beef and bread, and tracts at the same time.  They laughed at him, but were oddly fond of him; he was a sharp disciplinarian, but was too quiet, they always had thought, to have much pluck.

Blecker, glancing at his watch, saw that it was eleven; the moon was sinking fast, her level rays fainter and bluer, as from some farther depth of rest and quiet than before.  His keenly set ears distinguished just then an even tramp among the abrupt sounds without,—­the feet of two or three men carrying weight.

“He’s here, Zur,” said Dan, who held the feet, tenderly enough.  “Aisy now, b’ys.  It’s not bar’ls ye’re liftin’.”  They laid him down.  “Fur up th’ ridge he was:  not many blue-coats furder an.  That’s true,”—­in a loud, hearty tone.  “I’m doubtin’,” in an aside, “it’s all over wid him.  I’ll howld the lantern, Zur.”

“You, Blecker?” McKinstry muttered, as he opened his eyes with his usual pleased smile.  “We’ve lost the day?”

“Yes.  No matter now, Mac.  Quiet one moment,”—­cutting the boot from his leg.

“Not fifty of my boys escaped,”—­a sort of spasm passing over his face.  “Tell them at home they fought nobly,—­nobly.”

His voice died down.  Blecker finished his examination,—­it needed but a minute,—­then softly replaced the leg, and, coming up, stood quiet, only wiping the dampness off his forehead.  Dan set down the lantern.

“I’ll go, Zur,” he whispered.  “Ther’ ’s work outside, belike.”

The Doctor nodded.  McKinstry opened his eyes.

“Good bye, my friend,”—­stretching out his hand to Dan.  “My brother couldn’t have been kinder to me than you were to-night.”

“Good bye, Zur.”  The rough thrust out his great fist eagerly.  “God open the gate wide for yer Honor, the night,”—­clearing his voice, as he went out.

“I’m going, then, Blecker?”

Paul could not meet the womanish blue eyes turned towards him:  he turned abruptly away.

“Why! why!  Tut!  I did not think you cared, Paul,”—­tightening his grasp of the hand in his.  Then, closing his eyes, he covered his face with his left hand, and was silent awhile.

“Go, Doctor,” he said, at last.  “I forgot that others need you.  Go at once.  I’m very comfortable here.”

“I will not go.  Do you see this?”—­pointing to the stream of bright arterial blood.  “It was madness to throw your life away thus; a handkerchief tightened here would have sufficed until they carried you off the field.”