“Here, Justin—here is the flask of brandy, with the cup fitted to it, that I brought for you on the field. Offer it to them, Justin,” said Britomarte, passing the flask that the Rebels had not taken from her.
From Justin it was passed on from hand to hand, until it reached the men nearest the water spout. They took the cup from the bottom of the flask, over which it was fitted, and they filled it with water, and then passed both cup and flask from hand to hand until it reached the fainting invalid.
It seemed to be useless, for the voice that had spoken first was heard again:
“Crowd back, boys. Crowd back, for Heaven’s sake! Never mind flattening yourselves half to death! Crowd back, I say! This man is not fainting—he is dying! Let him have a little room to lie down and die.”
There was an attempt at “crowding back.” The attempt involved increased pressure and pain, and elicited renewed groans and curses. But four or five feet of room was made, and the dying man was let down upon the ground. The “man” was a boy of eighteen. Those immediately around him saw his face darken with the shadow of death, saw his eyes glaze, and heard his gasping breath, and the death rattle in his throat, and they saw, through all, his eager anxiety and painful effort to speak.
“Don’t tell——don’t tell——don’t tell——” he began to say many times, and many times he failed.
At length, in one supreme effort, he spoke his whole will.
“Don’t tell mother—never let her hear—how wretchedly I die!”
And with these words, his spirit passed.
And the groans and curses and vows of vengeance were renewed—more is the pity, since the pure spirit that had just departed was doubtlessly reconciled to all things, and at peace with all men.