"You see that hill, there before us?"
"Yes."
"Gettysburg is over that hill. There's the cemetery. My father's buried there."
Adams looked in under the tall pines. He could see the white stones standing stiffly in the moonlight.
"We're goin' in there," he said. "Keep your nerve up there, boy."
Adams had seen other things besides the white tombstones, things that moved faintly or lay quietly, or gave forth ghastly sounds. He was conscious, by his sense of smell, of the army about him and of the carnage that had been.
Parsons, strangely enough, had neither heard nor smelled. A sudden awe came upon him; the past returned: he remembered his father, his mother's grief at his death, his visits with her to the cemetery. It seemed to him that he was again a boy stealing home from a day's fishing in Rock Creek, a little fearful as he passed the cemetery gate. He touched Adams's arm shyly before he began to sling off his knapsack and to lie down as his comrades were doing all about him.
"That is my father's grave," he whispered.
Then, before the kindly answer sprang from Adams's lips, a gurgle came into Parsons's throat as though he were dying. One of the apparitions that Adams had seen lifted itself from the grass, leaving behind dark stains. The clear moonlight left no detail of the hideous wounds to the imagination.
"Parsons!" cried Adams sharply.