"Now, Maje, look here. A little thing like that——"
"Go to the rear."
Lige gulped with sobs.
"Maje, I know I didn't understand ye at first, but ruther'n let a little thing like that come between us, I'd—I'd——"
"Go to the rear."
In this reiteration Lige discovered a resemblance to that first old offensive phrase, "Come to attention and salute." He pondered over the resemblance and he saw that nothing had changed. The man bleeding to death was the same man to whom he had once paid a friendly visit with unfriendly results. He thought now that he perceived a certain hopeless gulf, a gulf which is real or unreal, according to circumstances. Sometimes all men are equal; occasionally they are not. If Gates had ever criticised Lige's manipulation of a hay fork on the farm at home, Lige would have furiously disdained his hate or blame. He saw now that he must not openly approve the major's conduct in war. The major's pride was in his business, and his, Lige's congratulations, were beyond all enduring.
The place where they were lying suddenly fell under a new heavy rain of bullets. They sputtered about the men, making the noise of large grasshoppers.
"Major!" cried Lige. "Major Gates! It won't do for ye to be left here, sir. Ye'll be killed."
"But you can't help it, lad. You take care of yourself."
"I'm damned if I do," said the private, vehemently. "If I can't git you out, I'll stay and wait."