"Oh, that's it, then!" and something like his old, mischievous smile glimmered about Bob's mouth as he added: "They spared my arms, but, Bell"—and he tried to look very solemn—"suppose I tell you that they hacked off both my legs, and if you marry me, as you seem to think you will, you must walk all your life by the side of wooden pins and crutches?"
Bell knew by the curl of his lip that he was teasing her, and she answered, laughingly:
"Wooden pins and crutches will be all the fashion when the war is over; badges of honor of which any woman might be proud."
"Well, Bell," he replied, "I am afraid there is no such honor in store for my wife, for if I ever get back my strength and the flesh upon my bones, she must take me with legs and arms included. Not even a scratch or wound of any kind with which to awaken sympathy."
He appeared very bright and cheerful, but when, after a moment, Bell asked for Mark Ray, there came a shadow over his face, and with quivering lips he told a tale which blanched Bell's cheek, and made her shiver with pain and dread as she thought of Helen, the wife who had never known the sweets of matrimony, and who would never taste them now, for Mark was dead—shot down as he attempted to escape from the train which took them from one place of torment to another. He was always devising means of escape, succeeding several times, but was immediately captured and brought back, or sent to some closer quarters, Robert said; but his courage never deserted him, and in the muddy, filthy place where they were herded like so many cattle, without shelter of any kind, he was the life of them all, and by his presence kept many a poor fellow from dying of homesickness and despair. But he was dead; there could be no mistake, for Robert saw him when he jumped, heard the ball which went whizzing after him, saw him as he fell on the open field, saw a man from a rude dwelling nearby go hurriedly toward him, firing his own revolver, as if to make the death deed doubly sure. Then, as the train slacked its speed, with the view, perhaps, to take the body on board, he heard the man who had reached Mark and was bending over him, call out: "Go on; I'll tend to him. He is dead as a stone; bullet went right through here," and he turned the dead man's face toward the train, so all could see the blood pouring from the temple which the finger of the rebel ruffian touched.
"Oh, Helen! poor Helen! How can I tell her, when she loved him so much!" Bell sobbed, while Bob repeated many things to prove how strong was the love the unfortunate Mark Ray had borne for his young wife.
"He used to make pictures of her," he said, "with a pencil which he had, and once he whittled out her face with a lily in the hair. It was a good likeness, too, and I saw Mark kiss it more than once when he thought he was not seen. He had her photograph, it seems, but a brutal keeper took it away, for no earthly purpose except to distress him. I never saw Mark cast down till then, when for two whole days he scarcely spoke, but would stand for hours with his face turned toward the North, and a quivering motion around his lips, as if his heart were broken."
Bell could hear no more, but motioned him to stop.
"It's too terrible even to think about," she said. "Oh, how can I tell Helen!"
"You will do it better than any one else," Bob said. "You will be very tender with her; and, Bell, tell her, as some consolation, that he did not break with the treatment, as most of us wretches did; he kept up wonderfully—said he was perfectly well—and, indeed, he looked so. Tom Tubbs, who was his shadow, clinging to him with wonderful fidelity, will corroborate what I have said. He was with us, he saw him, and only animal force prevented him from leaping from the car and going to him where he fell. I shall never forget his shriek of agony at the sight of that blood-stained face turned an instant toward us."