"No." The General mused for a moment. "Found anything else?" he demanded sharply.
The searchers reported "Nothing," and wished to know if they should bring the skeleton out into the light.
"No: cover him up decently, and fall in to limber up the gun!" He took his horse's bridle and walked back to the group about the injured man.
"Who is he?"
He was told, a corporal of the 94th who had volunteered for the gun team two days before. The sergeant who reported this added diffidently, "He had half a dozen of his religious mates in the team. He's a Wesleyan Methodist, sir, begging your pardon."
"Are you one?"
The sergeant saluted.
"He was the best man in his company and—and," he added with a touch of awe, "he was converted by Charles Wesley himself—at Bristol in 'eighty, so he's told us—and him aged but sixteen."
The General bent with sudden interest as the dying man opened his eyes. After scanning his face for a moment or two he said gently:
"My man, they tell me you knew Charles Wesley."