The boy saw him catch up his lantern and peer eagerly at him with shortened breath.

“What is it?  Is he dead?”

“No, not dead,”—­putting down the lantern.

But very near it, this man, John Gurney,—­so near that it needed no deed of Blecker’s to make him pass the bound.  Only a few moments’ neglect.  A bandage, a skilful touch or two, care in the hospitals, might save him.

But what claim had he on Paul that he should do this?  For a moment the hot blood in the little Doctor’s veins throbbed fiercely, as he rose slowly, and, taking his lantern, stood looking down.

“In an hour,” glancing critically at him, “he will be dead.”

Something within him coolly added, “And Paul Blecker a murderer.”

But he choked it down, and picked his steps through scorched winter stubble, dead horses, men, wagon-wheels, across the field; thinking, as he went, of Grey free, his child-love, true, coaxing, coming to his tired arms once more; of the home on the farm yonder, he meant to buy,—­he, the rough, jolly farmer, and she, busy Grey, bustling Grey, with her loving, fussing ways.  Why, it came like a flash to him!  Yet, as it came, tugging at his heart with the whole strength of his blood, he turned, this poor, thwarted, passionate little Doctor, and began jogging back to the locust-woods,—­passing many wounded men of his own kith and spirit, and going back to Gurney.

Because—­he was his enemy.

“Thank God, I am not utterly debased!”—­grinding the tobacco vehemently in his teeth.

He walked faster, seeing that the moon was going down, leaving the battle-field in shadow.  Overhead, the sinking light, striking upward from the horizon, had worked the black dome into depths of fretted silver.  Blecker saw it, though passion made his step unsteady and his eye dim.  No man could do a mean, foul deed while God stretched out such a temple-roof as that for his soul to live in, was the thought that dully touched his outer consciousness.  But little Grey!  If he could go home to her to-morrow, and, lifting her thin, tired face from the machine, hold it to his breast, and say, “You’re free now, forever!” O God!

He stopped, pulling his coat across his breast in his clenched hands,—­then, after a moment, went on, his arms falling powerless.

“I’m a child!  It is of no use to think of it!  Never!”—­his hard, black eyes, that in these last few months had grown sad and questioning as a child’s, looking to the north hill, as he strode along, as though he were bidding some one good-bye.  And when he came to the hillock and knelt down again beside Gurney, there was no malice in them.  He was faithful in every touch and draught and probe.  With the wish in his heart to thrust the knife into the heart of the unconscious man lying before him, he touched him as though he had been his brother.

Gurney, opening his eyes at last, saw the yellow, haggard face, in its fringe of black beard, as rigid as if cut out of stone, very near his own.  The grave, hopeless eyes subdued him.