"Don't forget to say how sorry I am—how ashamed I was when I got away—not for fighting for my country—for the glorious stars and bars; but because I—I treated her so. She was always so good, since mother and father died."
"I will do all I can for you. But your name—I must have that," said Deck. The captain had fallen back, and the eyes were becoming glassy. "Perhaps he had better have some more liquor, Life," he cried.
"My name is Paul—my name is Pa—" The sufferer broke off short. In vain he tried to speak. A shudder took possession of him, and he stretched out—dead.
"Gone!" muttered the tall Kentuckian. "Too bad. And only a boy, Major."
Deck could not trust himself to speak. During the past two years he had seen many men die, but no death had affected him like this. Two tears stole silently down his browned cheeks.
"Didn't catch his name, either?" went on Life.
"No."
"Then how are you going to find that sister of his?"
"I don't know yet; but I will find a way—I must," was the firm answer. He felt that the dead Confederate had intrusted him with a mission that could not be ignored.
Ere now the dead had been left where they had fallen, but both Deck and Life felt they could not leave this boyish captain lying in the meadow grass. Looking around, they found a trench dug through the meadow to the brook, and in a dry portion of this they deposited the body, first relieving it of a watch, a pocket-knife, and a photograph of a pleasant-looking Southern girl, presumedly Rosebel. The sods from the trench still lay upon the banks, and with these and some loose dirt they covered up the corpse. Then taking a long stick, Deck cut one end flat, and marked upon it with a heavy pencil,—