“Then sing it,” Charlie whispered; “sing it, won’t you? Maybe I’ll go to sleep. I don’t ache any now.”
With a mighty effort the soldier forced down his bitter grief, and in a low, mournful tone, commenced our beautiful church chant, the dying child for whom he sang, faintly joining with him for a time, but the sweet voice ceased ere long, the curly head pressed heavier, the bleeding stumps lay motionless, and when the chant was ended, Charlie had gone to his last sleep.
Carefully, reverently, the North Carolinian laid the little form upon the grass, and kissed the stiffened lips for the sake of the mother, who might never know just how Charlie died.
Just then footsteps sounded near. Tom and Isaac were coming, and the face of the soldier darkened when he saw them, as if they had been intruders upon him and his beautiful dead. Their appearance, however, disarmed him at once, and with a faint smile he pointed to his companion, and said:
“He was in the Federal army two hours ago; he has joined God’s army now. Poor Charlie! I would have done much to save him!” and with his hand he smoothed the golden hair, on which the flecks of western sunshine lay.
Isaac knew it was a Rebel speaking to him, and for an instant he experienced the same sensation he had felt in the midst of the fray, but only for an instant, for though he knew it was a sworn foe, he knew, too, that ’twas a noble-hearted man, and with a pitying glance at the dead, he asked if aught could be done for the living.
“No,” and the soldier smiled again; “my passport is sealed; I am going after Charlie. Some one of your men did his work well—see!” and opening his coat, he disclosed the frightful wound from which the dark blood was gushing.
Then, in a few words he had told them Charlie’s story, adding in conclusion,
“You will escape; you will go home again: and if you do, write to Charlie’s mother, and tell her how he died. Tell her not to weep for him so early saved. Her letter is in his pocket: take it as a guide where to direct your own.”
This he said to Isaac, for he saw Tom was disabled. Isaac did as he was bidden, and the letter from Charlie’s mother, written but a week before, was safely put away for future reference, and then Isaac did for the North Carolina soldier what the North Carolina soldier had done for the Yankee boy: he staunched the flowing blood as best he could, bathed the throbbing head, and held the cooling water to the dry, parched lips, which feebly murmured their thanks.