“To go on guard, sir?”
“No; for any little duty—to take charge of prisoners, perhaps. Where is Samson?”
“Gone, father.”
“What? Not killed?”
“I hope not, father; but after that gallop, when we last changed front, I missed him, and, though we have searched, we can’t find him. I’m afraid the enemy carried him off.”
“Poor lad! A brave fellow, Fred. There, I must go.”
“Shall I come with you now, father?”
“No; lie down and rest till the meal is ready.”
Colonel Forrester rode off with his followers, and his son walked wearily to where his horse was feeding, and led it where it could have a hearty drink of the pure water. Then, having turned it loose again, he threw himself down, and lay gazing at the sunlit scene, wishing that the war was over, and that he could go back to the dear old manor house, and enjoy the pleasures of home and peace.
How beautiful it all looked, the golden sunshine glorifying the oak-trees with their tender leaves, and turning the pine trunks bronze-red! The films of wood smoke from the camp-fires spread in a pale blue vapour, and the babbling stream flashed. But, restful as the scene was, and pleasant as the reclining posture was to his aching bones, Fred did not feel happy, for he knew that not far away men were lying in fever and weariness, cut, stabbed, trampled by horse hoof, and shattered by bullet, many of them waiting anxiously for death, the same death that had come upon so many of their fellows, who were lying stark on the field, or being hastily laid in rows in their shallow grave.