White, haggard faces clustered about him. Lean hands clutched at the bridle of the foam covered horse. Torches flashed from every quarter, and questions poured upon him. Only one answer he returned, “Washington is near. We are saved. I swear to God!” And every time he repeated the words they became more distracting until he laughed and sobbed them out again and again.
“See, he is falling! Some one catch Molly. God bless the boy!” The faces clustering around him faded into a quivering circle of white; the torches flickered and went out; an awful agony took possession of his last conscious thought,—he was dying among all those men!
Molly.
“He’s coming.... We are saved! Saved! Saved!”
“Just a drop more, lad, now put back your head.” Shirtliffe swallowed the burning drop, and felt it thrill through his cold, numb body. He was too weary to open his eyes or to care what became of him, but suddenly a voice from among the others first startled, then stilled his breath.
“He comes from our town. Let me take him—I tell you we—were—boys—together!” Robert opened his eyes. Near by stood a new volunteer, ragged, pinched and worn. They were constantly working their way into camp, but the sight of this one caused Shirtliffe both joy and despair.
He smiled feebly into the anxious face of the boy pleading to be allowed to care for him.
“Hello! Martin,” he whispered, “I’m all right. When did you get in?” The men standing around, seeing that the fainting spell was over, turned to join the excited groups and discuss Robert’s wonderful news. Sick men had become strong, weak hearts, brave, and over the entire camp a joyful atmosphere of expectant waiting pervaded everything.
Seeing themselves comparatively alone, Shirtliffe motioned the new volunteer nearer.