“The hosses ain’t fer away,” he said.  “Oh, Lawd!”

“Did you kill him?”

“I reckon not,” whispered Jerry.  “I shot him on the wrong side.  I’m al’ays a-fergettin’ which side a man’s heart’s on.”

“What became of Snowball?”

“He run jes’ as soon as he butted the feller on his right.  He said he’d git one, but I didn’t know what he was doin’ when I seed him start like a sheep.  Listen!”

There was a tumult at the house—­moving lights, excited cries, and a great hurrying.  Black Rufus was the first to appear with a lantern, and when he held it high as the fence, Chad saw Margaret in the light, her hands clinched and her eyes burning.

“Have you killed him?” she asked, quietly but fiercely.  “You nearly did once before.  Have you succeeded this time?” Then she saw the Sergeant writhing on the ground, his right forearm hugging his breast, and her hands relaxed and her face changed.

“Did Dan do that?  Did Dan do that?”

“Dan was unarmed,” said Chad, quietly.

“Mother,” called the girl, as though she had not heard him, “send someone to help.  Bring him to the house,” she added, turning.  As no movement was made, she turned again.

“Bring him up to the house,” she said, imperiously, and when the hesitating soldiers stooped to pick up the wounded man, she saw the streak of blood running down Chad’s chin and she stared open-eyed.  She made one step toward him, and then she shrank back out of the light.

“Oh!,” she said.  “Are you wounded, too?  Oh!”

“No!” said Chad, grimly.  “Dan didn’t do that”—­pointing to the Sergeant—­“he did this—­with his fist.  It’s the second time Dan has done this.  Easy, men,” he added, with low-voiced authority.

Mrs. Dean was holding the door open.

“No,” said Chad, quickly.  “That wicker lounge will do.  He will be cooler on the porch.”  Then he stooped, and loosening the Sergeant’s blouse and shirt examined the wound.

“It’s only through the shoulder, Lieutenant,” said the man, faintly.  But it was under the shoulder, and Chad turned.

“Jake,” he said, sharply, “go back and bring a surgeon—­and an officer to relieve me.  I think he can be moved in the morning, Mrs. Dean.  With your permission I will wait here until the Surgeon comes.  Please don’t disturb yourself further”—­ Margaret had appeared at the door, with some bandages that she and her mother had been making for Confederates and behind her a servant followed with towels and a pail of water—­“I am sorry to trespass.”

“Did the bullet pass through?” asked Mrs. Dean, simply.

“No, Mrs. Dean,” said Chad.

Margaret turned indoors.  Without another word, her mother knelt above the wounded man, cut the shirt away, staunched the trickling blood, and deftly bound the wound with lint and bandages, while Chad stood, helplessly watching her.

“I am sorry,” he said again, when she rose, “sorry—­”