“I lost a score of riflemen that night;
My first lieutenant—­his last battle over—­
Lay cut in twain upon the battle-line. 
With lantern dim wide o’er the slaughter-field
I searched at midnight for my wounded men,
But chiefly searched for Paul.  An hour or more
I sought among the groaning and the dead,
Stooping and to the dim light turning up
The ghastly faces, till at last I found
Him whom I sought, and on the outer line—­
Feet to the foe and silent face to heaven—­
Death pale and bleeding from a ragged wound
Pleading with feeble voice to let him be
And die upon the field, we bore him thence;
And tenderly his comrades carried him,
Sheltered with blankets, on the weary march
At dead of night in dismal storm begun. 
We made a stand at Harrison’s, and there
With careful hands we laid him on a cot. 
Now I had learned to prize the noble boy;
My heart was touched with pity.  Patiently
I watched o’er Paul and bathed his fevered brow,
And pressed the cooling sponge upon his lips,
And washed his wound and gave him nourishment. 
’Twas all in vain, the surgeon said.  I felt
That I could save him and I kept my watch. 
A rib was crushed—­beneath it one could see
The throbbing vitals—­torn as we supposed,
But found unwounded.  In his feverish sleep
He often moaned and muttered mysteries,
And, dreaming, spoke in low and tender tones
As if some loved one sat beside his cot. 
I questioned him and sought the secret key
To solve his mystery, but all in vain. 
A month of careful nursing turned the scale,
And he began to gain upon his wound. 
Propt in his cot one evening as he sat
And I sat by him, thus I questioned him: 
’There is a mystery about your life
That I would gladly fathom.  Paul, I think
You well may trust me, and I fain would hear
The story of your life; right well I know
There is a secret sorrow in your heart.’

[Illustration:  STOOPING AND TO THE DIM LIGHT TURNING UP THE GHASTLY FACES, TILL I AT LAST I FOUND HIM WHOM I SOUGHT.]

“He turned his face and fixed his lustrous eyes
Upon mine own inquiringly, and held
His gaze upon me till his vacant stare
Told me full well his thoughts had wandered back
Into the depth of his own silent soul;
Then he looked down and sadly smiled and said: 

“’Captain, I have no history—­not one page;
My book of life is but a blotted blank. 
Let it be sealed; I would not open it,
Even to one who saved a worthless life,
Only to add a few more leaves in blank
To the blank volume.  All that I now am
I offer to my country.  If I live
And from this cot walk forth, ’twill only be
To march and fight and march and fight again,’
Until a surer aim shall bring me down
Where care and kindness can no more avail. 
Under our country’s flag a soldier’s death
I hope to die and leave no name behind. 
My only wish is this—­for what I am,
Or have been, or have hoped to be, is now
A blank misfortune.  I will say no more.’