"Now, look here, Ned, old man—this'll never do—don't—don't—give up!"
The answer came faint and low:
"Tell—Betty—when—you—see—her—that—with—my—last—breath—I—spoke—her—name—her—face—lights—the—dark—way——"
"You're going, Ned?"
"Yes——"
"Say you forgive me!"
"There's—nothing—to—forgive—it's—all—right—John—good-bye——"
The voice stopped. The battle had ceased. The woods were still. The older brother could feel the slow rising and falling of the strong young chest as if the muscles in the glory of their perfect life refused to hear the call of Death.
He bent in the darkness and kissed the trembling lips and they, too, were still. He drew himself against the trunk of a tree and through the beautiful summer night held the body of his dead brother in his arms.
His fevered eyes were opened at last and he saw war as it is for the first time. It had meant nothing before this reckoning of the dead and wounded after battle—sixty thousand men from the Rapidan to Cold Harbor in thirty days—ten thousand five hundred in the futile dash against Petersburg—four thousand in the crater—five thousand five hundred more now on this torn, twisted railroad, and all a failure—not an inch of ground gained.