“I can’t! indeed I can’t! The bulleth hurt! they do indeed, Mathor! And the Rebelth fire without the thlighteth regard to a man’s life! Oh, look how they are falling! Oh, poor fellowth! oh, the poor, poor fellowth!” howled Billingcoo.
“The brave fellows, you mean; get up and imitate them.”
“Oh, I couldn’t! I couldn’t for my life! I thould be thertain to be killed! The Rebelth fire tho carelethly, not minding who they hit! I feel I thould he killed!
“Suppose you are killed, you poltroon! what of it? A man can die but once!” exclaimed little Mim, thoroughly provoked.
“I tell you I’ve died a thouthand death thinth I’ve been in the army! I’ve died a hundred death thinth I’ve been in thith thicket!”
“And you’ll die a hundred thousand more if you do not get over your cowardly fears! Look at that young fellow there!” said Mim, pointing to a young officer at some distance who, with sword in hand, was gaily cheering on his men to the conflict.
Billingcoo looked; but at that moment a shell came tearing and splitting its way through the woods, and when the smoke cleared away, a horrible picture was revealed between its rifts. The young officer stood in the same attitude, with his sword drawn and held at arm’s length over his head, but his whole face was blown off, and nothing but a gory, crimson, quivering mass of flesh remained where it had been. For only an instant he stood thus, and then fell.
Billingcoo uttered a cry of horror and deadly terror, and threw himself forward upon the ground.
Even Mim shuddered, and covered his eyes for a moment; but then recovering herself, he looked up and said:
“It is all over by this time; the brave young fellow is out of his misery. Come, Billingcoo! I have been sent to hurry up all laggards. Get up! Pick up your musket and march!”