"Are you much hurt?" asked Roberta.
"O, no; just a scratch."
His chin fell on his chest. A dry sob burst from him.
"I wish now I had been killed with the rest of 'em."
"Have you got a mother?" Roberta asked.
"Yes, I've got a mother; but what will she say when I tell her I left Bert lying yonder in that death-trap? That's what's the matter. I wanted to find Bert and take him away with me. I hunted for him all along among those trees, and I got cut off from our boys. I think I must have lost my head, for I forgot which way they went."
"Who is Bert?" asked Roberta.
"Bert was my brother, and the best boy that ever lived. Curse them!" he cried, shaking his clenched fist; "curse the Yankees. What right have they on Kentucky soil, anyhow?"
"O, don't curse them," said the child; "my papa is a Yankee."
"Is he?" He stopped short and looked at her with a kind of pity. "I am sorry for you, that's all; sorry from my heart. I'd rather be a negro trader."