As the horse fell, Harry sprang instinctively and alighted upon his feet, although he staggered.  Then Slade pulled trigger, and a searing, burning pain shot through his left shoulder.  Dizzy and weak he raised his rifle, nevertheless, and fired at the hairy face of the big man.  He saw the huge figure topple and fall; he heard another shot, and again felt the thrill of pain, this time in the head, heard a shrill whistle repeated over and over, and did not remember anything definite until some time afterward.

When his head became clear once more Harry believed that he had wandered a long distance from that brief but fierce combat, but he did not know in what direction his steps had taken him.  Nearly all his strength was gone, and his head ached fearfully.  He had dropped his rifle, but where he did not know nor care.  He sat down on the ground with his back against a tree, and put his right hand to his head.  The wound there had quit bleeding, clogged up with its own blood.  He was experienced enough to know that it was merely a flesh wound, and that any possible scar would be hidden by his hair.

But the wound in his left shoulder was more serious.  The bullet had gone entirely through, for which he was glad, but the hurt was still bleeding.  He made shift to bandage it with strips torn from his underclothing, and, after a long rest, he undertook to walk back to the camp.  He was not sure of the way, and after two or three hundred yards he grew dizzy and sat down again.  Then he shouted for help, but his voice sounded so weak that he gave it up.

He was never sure, but he thought another period of unconsciousness followed, because when he aroused himself the sun seemed to be much farther down in the west.  His head was still aching, though not quite so badly as before, and he made a new effort to walk.  He did not know where he was going, but he must go somewhere.  If he remained there in the wilderness, and his comrades could not find him, he would die of weakness and starvation.  He shuddered.  It would be the very irony of fate that one who had gone through Chancellorsville, Gettysburg and all the great battles in the East should be slain on his way home by a roving guerrilla.

He rested again and summoned all his strength and courage, and he was able to go several hundred yards farther.  As he advanced the forest seemed to thin and he was quite sure that he saw through it a valley and open fields.  The effect upon him was that of a great stimulant, and he found increased strength.  He tottered on, but stopped soon and leaned against a tree.  He dimly saw the valley, the fields, and a distant roof, and then came something that gave him new strength.  It was a man’s voice singing, a voice clear, powerful and wonderfully mellow: