“Take me out of this,” he moaned.

“You are going—­to the hospital,”—­helping some men lift him into an ambulance.

“Slowly, my good fellows.  I will follow you.”

He did follow them.  Let us give the man credit for every step of that following, the more that the evil in his blood struggled so fiercely with such a mortal pain as he went.  In Fredericksburg, one of the old family-homesteads had been taken for a camp-hospital.  As they laid Gurney on a heap of straw in the library, a surgeon passed through the room.

“Story,” said Paul, catching his arm, “see to that man:  this is your post, I believe.  I have dressed his wound.  I cannot do more.”

Story did not know the meaning of that.  He stuck his eye-glasses over his hook-nose, and stooped down, being nearsighted.

“Hardly worth while to put him under my care, or anybody’s.  The fellow will not live until morning.”

“I don’t know.  I did what I could.”

“Nothing more to be done.—­Parr’s out of lint, did you know?  He’s enough to provoke Job, that fellow!  I warned him especially about lint and supporters.—­Why, Blecker, you are worn out,”—­looking at him closer.  “It has been a hard fight.”

“Yes, I am tired; it was a hard fight.”

“I must find Parr about that lint, and”—­

Paul walked to the window, breathing heavy draughts of the fresh morning air.  The man would not die, he thought.  Grey would never be free.  No.  Yet, since he was a child, before he began to grapple his way through the world, he had never known such a cheerful quiet as that which filled his eyes with tears now; for, if the fight had been hard, Paul Blecker had won the victory.

Sunday morning dawned cold and windy.  Now and then, volleys of musketry, or a repulse from the Southern batteries on the heights, filled the blue morning sky with belching scarlet flame and smoke:  through all, however, the long train of army-wagons passed over the pontoon-bridge, bearing the wounded.  About six o’clock some men came out from the camp-hospital.  Doctor Blecker stood on the outside of the door:  all night he had been there, like some lean, unquiet ghost.  Story, the surgeon, met the men.  They carried something on a board, covered with an old patchwork quilt.  Story lifted the corner of the quilt to see what lay beneath.  Doctor Blecker stood in their way, but neither moved nor spoke to them.

“Take it to the trenches,” said the surgeon, shortly nodding to them.—­“Your Rebel friend, Blecker.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Story, I did what I could?”

“Of course.  Past help.—­When are we to be taken out of this trap, eh?”—­going on.

“I did what I could.”

As the Doctor’s parched lips moved, he looked up.  How deep the blue was! how the cold air blew his hair about, fresh and boisterous!  He went down the field with a light, springing step, as he used, when a boy, long ago, to run to the hay-field.  The earth was so full of health, life, beauty, he could have cried or laughed out loud.  He stopped on the bridge, seeing only the bright, rushing clouds, the broad river, the sunlight,—­a little way from him in the world, little Grey.